In the Light
by gaelicspirit
Summary: Set after BUABS. There is no rest for the weary. An old friend and a new hunt pits Dean against the elements and Sam against himself as the brothers fight for each other and for survival. T for language and themes.
1. Watch

**Disclaimer**: They are simply a muse, and sadly don't belong to me. Story title comes from Zeppelin song of the same name. No, I don't own Zeppelin, either. More's the pity.

**Spoilers:** This is set in Season 2, immediately after _Born Under a Bad Sign._ Anything before that is fair game.

a/n: This story is dedicated to **Nana56** (http // www . fanfiction . net / u / 1121605 / Nana56 -- url spaced out so that it will show up here; remove spaces to see). She bid on me at the 2007 Kazcon author's auction and has been so very patient—I've actually had the outline completed since August of '07, but I've had some promises to keep.

I will be returning the character Abe Nakomis from _Ramble On_ to the boys.

Also, my good friend **Tara** made a vid to Stone Sour's _Bother_ when I first told her about this story. She has a fantastic eye for images and lyrics and this vid really kicks off Dean's mindset in this story. Here is the link if you'd like to check it out: http // www . youtube . com / watch?v dBQXW-np1Uw (remove spaces to link).

Glad to have you back, Kelly. You're a corker.

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_And if you feel that you can't go on. And your will's sinkin' low  
Just believe and you can't go wrong.  
In the light you will find the road. You will find the road…_

_-- Led Zeppelin, "In the Light"_

_"When Dad said I might have to kill you… it was only if I couldn't save you. And if it's the last thing I do… I'm gonna save you."_

* * *

It was something about the eyes. They looked too human and yet not human enough. They stared at him with an unsettling mixture of sadness and curiosity. If he could have spoken, he would have demanded that the eyes close, that they stop staring, that they look away.

But they continued to stare. They watched as he wavered. They watched as he fell. They watched as he clutched his chest, violently, as if trying to pull his skin apart and open his lungs to the air. They watched as he writhed, as every devastating moment in his life slammed into him, as every wicked deed and unholy thought he'd experienced chased red ribbons of blood across his vision.

They watched as he cried, as he pleaded silently for release, as life trickled away from him with the faint echo of a hurricane in his heart.

They watched.

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Sam was shivering.

Dean sensed the tremor across the bench seat, the darkness not thick enough to hide the nightmares that swirled around his brother's head in clouds so dense Dean imagined he could reach out and brush them away.

He folded his lips against his teeth, knowing that memories couldn't be blocked in sleep, and the memories that had to be plaguing Sam couldn't be pretty. Dean didn't even know all that had happened to his brother in the time they'd been separated. Only that Sam had taken a life. Had seen himself kill a man and had been powerless to stop it. Had shot his own brother then beat him nearly senseless.

Pressing the back of his fingers gently against his bruised lip and tender nose, Dean cast a look over to Sam's bandaged arm, currently draped across his midsection. He knew the burn had to be painful, but there wasn't anything they could do about it until they got to Plummer.

They had been traveling North on Highway 59 for several hours after pulling over at a rest stop for some abbreviated sleep. The day was fading into evening; a gray twilight of secrets hovered just outside the confines of the car. Bobby's directions to the safe house were specific, as with everything Bobby provided them.

Once they reached Plummer, they were to travel north on Maine Street to a railroad crossing, turn left just before the tracks, and stop at a small brick house. There they were to ask for an _M. Flynn_. Dean sighed. He hoped this Flynn was a hunter that hadn't heard of Steve Wandell.

Shifting stiffly in the seat, his shoulder alive with heat left over from Jo's probing knife, Dean wriggled his tense fingers into his jacket pocket, rubbing the smooth surface of the charm Bobby had given them for protection from possession.

"Stop…" Sam gasped suddenly, hands flailing out, catching his body against the dash and the window.

Dean jerked his eyes over. "Stop?"

"What?" Sam blinked, looking at Dean with the hazy confusion of waking dreams still clouding his eyes.

"You need me to stop?"

"Uh… no," Sam shook his head. "No, I…"

"Bad dream?"

Sam rubbed his eyes. "Think so."

"Vision bad? Or…"

"Nah…" Sam rolled his neck, pushing himself straighter in the seat. "Just a dream."

Dean checked his side mirror, pulling past a car in front of them that was slowing to turn right, then gunning straight ahead.

Sam watched the car turn, then looked around them. "Where are we?"

"'Bout twenty miles outside of Plummer," Dean answered, reaching for the radio. Now that Sam was back with him, he needed the distraction of the music. He punched the pre-set buttons until he found a clear station.

_"I've been trying to make it home… got to make it, before too long. Ooh, I can't take this very much longer, no. I'm stranded, in the sleet and rain. Don't think I'm ever gonna make it home again…"_

"Hey, Dean?"

"Hmm?"

"What were we hunting in West Texas?"

Dean glanced to his right, not quite at Sam. "You don't remember?"

"Was it a Death Spirit?"

"Or so we thought," Dean bobbed his head to the beat of the song.

"Did… did we get it?" Sam turned slightly in the seat, facing his brother.

Dean shook his head, shifting his shoulders and bouncing his fingers on the wheel.

"Hope there's a bar in this town," Dean said, avoiding the subject.

Sam exhaled, his body bowing forward slightly with frustration. "I _want _to remember, Dean."

"Really?" Dean asked, skeptical. He lifted his eyebrow, turning his head as he did so. "You already said you were awake for some of it… saw what happened with Wandell. You _really_ want to remember?"

"Yeah," Sam barked. "Yeah, I do, Dean. I want to know how I left you. How you _let_ me leave you."

Dean winced inwardly. "Hey, you're a big boy. You're the one always telling me you can take care of yourself."

He took the exit to Plummer, digging the paper out of his pocket where Bobby had written directions to the safe house, double-checking the name of the street where they were to turn. Glancing at it quickly, he caught Sam's tortured expression in his periphery.

"Sammy," he sighed, giving in. "Don't do this, man. She possessed you. Nothing you could do about it."

"Yeah, there was," Sam grumbled. "How did I let that happen?"

"You're human, Dude," Dean reminded him. "Happened to Dad, too, remember."

Sam rubbed his face, glancing at his bandaged forearm. "Yeah, I know."

Dean slowed along Maine Street as a blue and white neon sign flashing _Maggie's Hideout_ caught his eye. Pausing for one moment to consider the time, the need to hide for a while from Steve Wandell's hunter friends, the need to rest up, heal, the need to help Sam get over a missing week of his life, Dean pulled into the parking lot.

The building looked a little like Harvelle's _Roadhouse_, only newer, sturdier. There were Harleys parked outside, rolled backwards against a hitching rail for easy escape. The 'a' in _Maggie's_ blinked in and out, and Dean could hear the fuzz of the shorted sign like a bug zapper over the rumble of the Impala's engine.

"What are we doing here?" Sam asked, frown lines aging his features.

"Getting a beer, hopefully," Dean replied, shutting off the motor. "Don't know 'bout you, but I could use one."

The pain pills Jo had tossed him had worn off long ago, and he hadn't bothered with another while Sam was watching. He couldn't tell if Sam remembered shooting him, and until Sam was steadier, he didn't want to remind him.

"You sure we should go somewhere public, Dean?" Sam's voice was clipped with worry.

"No one but Bobby knows we're even here, Sam," Dean retorted. He curled his fingers around the door handle. "And besides, we gotta find this Flynn dude to get into the safe house."

"Thought he'd meet us there," Sam said, still not moving.

Dean dropped his shoulders, resting his chin on his chest for a minute. Tension sat like a third party on the seat between them. Dean heard Sam swallow, felt the unabashed fear roll off his brother, washing over Dean in waves. Putting his back to the door, Dean faced Sam, staring at him until Sam looked back.

"You're gonna be okay, man," Dean reassured him.

Sam jerked his chin forward once in disbelief. "How the hell do you know that? Were you there when she… when she took me? Possessed me? How the hell did that happen, huh?"

"I don't _know_ how, Sam," Dean said softly. "When we were in Texas, you were _you_. You were fine. I grabbed a shower, you left for coffee, and…" Dean stretched his hand across the back of the seat, tipping his fingers up helplessly. "You never came back."

_It's like looking for Dad all over again…_ The staccato rush of annoyance, anger, and fear that had beat into Dean when he realized Sam wasn't just late, Sam wasn't just lost, Sam was _gone_ sifted through him with a chaser of heat.

They sat facing each other, lost in memories and darkness.

"So, how do you know it can't happen again?" Sam asked, his voice thick.

Dean reached into his pocket, pulling out the charm. He waggled it, making sure Sam saw, then pulled his mouth into a half grin. "Hey, listen," he cajoled. "Couple hours of pool and beer and you'll forget all about Meg. C'mon," Dean tipped his head toward the outside. "I'll even let you hustle me."

Sam grinned half-heartedly. "Hey, Dean."

Dean paused from his exit, looking back.

"I'm sorry about… y'know, hitting you."

Dean froze. For a moment every bruise still visible throbbed and those buried deep whimpered with need. He curled his fingers into his palm to keep them from reaching up to his shoulder.

"You remember that?"

Sam shook his head. "Not really, but… unless Bobby beat the crap outta you, figure it was me."

Dean folded his lips, nodding once. _Not yet…_ "Let's go, Fast Eddie."

A ghost of his old smile, dimples making a cameo appearance, crossed Sam's face.

"Does that make you Minnesota Fats?"

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The interior of the bar was dimly lit, a halo of cigarette smoke hovering just under the blue and red stained-glass covered lights. The room was shaped like a skeleton key. As they stood at the entrance they could see a bar with a wide mirror to their left, several tables in the center of the room, and a jukebox directly across from the bar. A single pool table and shoulder-height wooden shelves made for beer mugs filled the narrow space of the key.

They had been in a million bars that looked exactly the same. Wooden floors, wooden furniture, wooden people. Once in awhile, a character would step from the gray background and show up in Technicolor, offering one of them—usually Dean—companionship or a mark for a hustle. But for the most part, patrons of a bar blended like the background noise of jukebox music and multiple conversations.

Sharing a glance as they stepped through the door, Dean and Sam parted ways, Sam moving toward the bar, Dean toward the jukebox. He fed a five dollar bill into the slot, poking buttons on the control pad for every classic rock song he could find in the minimal collection. If nothing else, he'd fill the night with something to listen to besides the clinking of glasses, the cracking of billiards, and the muted sounds of the train whistle from the tracks outside.

Dean glanced surreptitiously over his shoulder at Sam settling on a stool at the bar, nodding at the bartender—a middle-aged woman with lined, cautious features, short blonde hair spiked up in tufts, and a visible tattoo on the inside of her right forearm—for a pint. Shifting his eyes back toward the front door, Dean watched the bouncer, who looked too old to do the job, but too tough to do anything else. The man's steel-like eyes slid over the smattering of clientele and Dean knew he missed nothing. His lips were completely shadowed by a wide, white mustache, and his thick-knuckled hands hung loose at his waist, thumbs tucked behind a gold buckle.

It took less than twenty minutes for the brothers to work their way to the pool table, set up the hustle, and run a set of losing games to match Dean's story at being new to this. As the evening lengthened, they drew a small crowd and the sharp eyes of the blonde bartender, but so far, their marks hadn't taken the bait.

"Man, you really do suck." The laugh punctuating the sentence was high-pitched, nervous. It seemed out of place emanating from the stocky, dark-haired man stroking his pool cue as though it was a lover. "You weren't kidding."

Dean offered him a self-deprecating smile, glancing down with a shrug. "Guess I figure the more I play, the more I'll learn."

"Dude, this guy's taken like… a hundred bucks from you," the stocky man guffawed, pointing a stub-like finger at Sam. "Just give up already."

Sam folded the bills Dean had laid on the mahogany edge of the pool table, tucking them into the front pocket of his jeans. He smiled and slid his cue back into the circular stocks at the back of the room.

"He's right," Sam said to Dean. "I've taken enough of your money, friend."

"C'mon, now," Dean protested, putting a hand up and stopping Sam from stepping past him. "You gotta gimme a chance to win some of that back. That's gas and whiskey right there."

Sam's smile was softly sympathetic, but he shook his head. "Know when to say when, man."

He side-stepped Dean, who rotated smoothly as Sam headed to the bar in the adjoining room. Dean bounced the rubber end of the pool cue against the floor.

"Seriously? No?" He called to Sam over the sound of the jukebox.

"Dude," came the high-pitched, nervous voice behind him. "I'll play ya."

Dean watched Sam's shoulders twitch as the line they'd cast caught and held. He turned from his brother's retreating back to face the stocky man, carefully reeling him in.

"Yeah?"

A hand flashing a ruby-studded gold ring was thrust toward him. "Sal. Sal Jeffers."

Dean clasped his hand. "Vincent Lauria."

"Nice ta meetcha, Vince," Sal grinned, showing a gold tooth. His face held signs that he may have once been attractive before time, booze, and several pounds morphed him into a stereotype. His dark hair was thinning, buzzed short to hide that fact, and his leather jacket creaked with attempted status.

Dean resisted the urge to shake his head.

"That's Jones and Lloyd," Sal said, point to the two men sitting along the back wall, each with a brown bottle of beer in their hands, looking like they had been cut from a piece of cast-off cloth that had created Sal. "This here's Vince, boys. He's gonna…" Sal glanced at Dean. "Learn a few things."

The duo in the back nodded as one, and Dean flicked them a two-fingered salute. Moving around the table, Dean cast a quick glance up to make sure he could see Sam. The muted glow from the covered lights that dangled over the top of the bar threw strange shadows on the floor.

Sam leaned against the bar, his elbows resting lazily as he waited for his order. He watched Dean move hesitantly around the table, continuing his Oscar-worthy performance of a rookie pool player. He'd never confess as much to Dean, but he enjoyed watching his brother play—both pool and people. He enjoyed watching Dean perform; it was something he was good at, and it wouldn't get him killed.

"'Kay, Vince, you ready to see some magic?" Sal stretched over the table, sliding the cue through his tented fingers. "Nine on the break."

Dean's smile was natural as the click of the balls drew his attention away and Sam heard him whistle appreciatively. Sam felt a tug on his shirt and he glanced over his shoulder, nodding his thanks at the woman who set a pint of dark beer down on a small white napkin. He felt her eyes rake over him, as if looking for something. Glancing up, questions balanced at the edge of his lashes, Sam waited until she turned away before returning his attention to Dean.

As he watched, Dean flexed the fingers on his left hand while he waited for Sal to finish his turn. Sam frowned. Something about that motion seemed… off. A pulse began to beat a cadence of pain behind his eyes. Sal missed a pocket, straightening up, and Dean shifted the pool cue up in his hands, rotating his shoulder in an almost unconscious gesture of pain.

Like a movie on a broken reel, images slit Sam's vision with visceral clarity.

_No, you'll live… you'll live to regret it…_

Sam shook his head, blinking his eyes wide, trying to see the bar once more, and not the image of his brother turning, falling, bouncing off of the floor of a cheap motel.

_You can't hurt me...Not without hurting your little brother. See, I think you're gonna die, Dean...you and every other hunter I can find. One look at Sam's dewy, sensitive eyes, and they'll let me right in that door…_

"Guh," Sam breathed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He lifted his head, looking for Dean and seeing him…standing on the edge of a dark pier. The sharp, unmistakable retort of a gun made Sam jump. Dean fell away.

Sam ground the flat of his fingers into his eyes, seeing the image of Dean jerk and fall loop through his head, over and over.

"You okay, sugar?"

"What?" Sam blinked wide eyes, looking around. He turned on the bar stool, present surroundings finally coming back into focus.

Electric-green eyes peered at him from under dark eyebrows, the color contrasting sharply with the bleach-blonde hair. The bartender was standing before him, a pint glass in one hand, a towel in the other, paused in the act of drying.

"Said are you okay? Need me to call someone?"

"No," Sam shook his head, taking a hefty drink of the beer in his pint. "No, just… just keep 'em coming."

"Oh, it's like that, is it?" she commented dryly.

_God, Dean… I shot you… I tried… I tried to kill you and you didn't say anything…_

"Yeah," Sam nodded, draining his glass and setting it down on the bar, ignoring the man who had stepped up beside him. "It's like that."

Dean watched as Jones returned from gathering another round of beers. He rested his eyes on his brother's slumped form, knowing that the cloud he'd seen around Sam in the car wasn't completely imagined. Dean knew what it felt like to want to be left alone and have a brother constantly _there_, constantly looking for _normal_ again. Sometimes quiet could only be found midst a crowded, noisy bar.

Dean paced himself through two games, losing money, but vocally picking up pointers. Sal took another break for a beer and Dean began to rotate through his cronies, winning a few games, losing a few. As the night wore on, Dean continued a steady stream of meaningless banter with the threesome, periodically checking on Sam, and subtly collecting over twice as much money as he'd lost.

The few patrons from the bar had circled them, observing, commenting, then either left the bar or returned to their tables and barstools as the games continued. Dean simply noted how many were around him at any given time. If they were male or female. If they were drunk or sober. If their hands hovered near waistbands or pockets. If there was a click of metal on metal when they moved.

A petite brunette had settled herself in the back corner of the pool room, slightly in the shadows, one foot cocked up on the wall in a lazy pose. Dean found his eyes traveling to the darkened corner on more than one pass around the table, picking up the soft tease of her perfume, noting that her straight, dark hair fell like rain over her shoulders, hiding part of her face from his calculating eyes.

At one point he looked over and she slid her eyes from the floor to his face in a slow blink. Her eyes were almond-shaped, her features exotic. The way she looked at him made him tighten in all the right places.

As Dean racked the twelfth—or was it thirteenth?—he felt the weariness of the night settle into his bones, highlighted in the ache of his shoulder. He glanced over at Sam. His brother had barely moved except to signal when he was ready for more beer. Dean chalked his cue, nodding at something Sal was saying, but kept his eyes on Sam. The further his brother plummeted into melancholy, the sharper Dean's game became.

_Last one, Sammy. Need to get you out of here…_

As he leaned over the table to break, Dean didn't bother with the hesitant positioning, the uncertain balance of the cue. His body curled expertly over the edge of the table, his fingers a perfect tripod for the tip of the cue. Sliding the smooth wood along his fingers twice to line up the ball, he called the shot, tapped the white ball with just the right amount of power to send it careening into the others and tumbling two into the corner and side pockets.

It was an expert shot, one not many could have made sober, let alone after many rounds of beer and several games. As he straightened up, Dean was aware that his comrades had quieted. In an automatic gesture of protection, his shoulders squared and his chin lowered as he rested his eyes on Sal. A low hum began in the back of his head.

"Nice shot, Vince," Sal chewed out, his dark eyes flat with distrust.

Dean lifted a shoulder. "Guess you guys are good teachers."

"You can't teach that shit, man," Lloyd spoke up, stepping forward.

Dean lifted an eyebrow, but Sal just tapped the air next to him, calling off his dog.

"Naw, naw, Vince is right," Sal cooed. "We're damn good. So good in fact, well, Jones! You been keepin' track how much we've let Vince here take from us?"

"Two hundred," Jones piped up. "From each."

"Yeah," Sal bobbed his head. "Yeah, that sounds 'bout right."

Dean stood still, his senses at Defcon five. The lights in the bar seemed to suddenly brighten. He heard glasses click and voices murmur and the thrum of the music from the jukebox behind him. He could smell the hops from the different brews being pulled from taps behind the bar, the tobacco in the cigarettes surrounding him, the sweat from the men across him, and the musky, heady scent of the dark-haired woman's perfume.

"What are you driving, Vince?" Sal broke in.

Dean looked back at him. "Come again?"

"Y'know… car? How'd you get here, man?"

Unsure where Sal was taking this line of questioning, Dean simply narrowed his eyes, settling his hips to _at ease_ and tipping his head to the side. This hustle was going south, and his instincts screamed for back-up. He didn't look back at Sam, however. He had it under control for the moment, and as long as they didn't realize that Sam was with him, his brother would be kept out of this.

"A Chevy."

"Truck?"

"Impala."

"Chick car," Lloyd snorted.

Dean quirked an eyebrow at that. "A _'67_ Impala," he tossed back.

"Nice," Sal nodded. "Think I saw that when I was hitting the head. Black one, yeah?"

Dean nodded.

"What say we play for your car, there, Vince?"

"My _car_?"

Sal nodded stepping close to Dean and clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Your car. Make up for what you took. Double or nothing."

Dean forced a friendly smile across his frozen face. "Don't think I'm interested in that, Sal."

Sal tightened his grip on Dean's shoulder, looking down, leaning close. Dean could smell a mixture of Coors Light and Wintergreen Skoal on his breath.

"Here's the thing… _Vince_," Sal whispered. "You gotta have two things to win. You gotta have brains and you gotta have balls," he quoted, the nervous pitch in his voice gone, dark intent lacing his words.

Dean swallowed. _Shit_. Hearing the movie he stole the name from tossed back at him, he realized they'd been made the moment they stepped up to the table. _Shoulda stuck with rock 'n roll aliases… _He twisted sideways, checking on Sam. Jones had made his way toward the bar and was about to clap Sam on the shoulder. Dean turned to warn him and Sal yanked him back.

"Where the hell you think you're goin', _Vince_?"

The hum in his head increased until Dean finally realized it was a voice. _This ends, tonight… I'm ending it…_ Loosening his grip on the pool cue so that he could slide his fingers down to the mid point, Dean faced Sal, taking a step forward, his nose a breath away from Sal's.

"You have exactly three seconds to let go of me," Dean growled, his eyes purposefully empty, his jaw tense.

"Yeah?" Sal challenged. "Or what?"

Twirling the pool cue easily around his wrist, Dean shoved the rubber-tipped end of it into Lloyd's gut as the man crept up behind him. The air rushed out of him with an audible _ooof_ and Dean jerked the cue back, swinging it around to crack across Sal's shoulder.

The would-be pool shark stumbled back with a cry of surprise and Dean dropped into a crouch.

"Sam!"

"Aww f'ckit… why cantcha jus' leave us 'lone…"

Instead of the reassuring feeling of Sam's presence, Dean heard the slurred curse in Sam's voice. He shot a look over his shoulder to check on him, and Lloyd took advantage of this moment of distraction. His large fist plowed into Dean's temple, jarring already-bruised skin, slamming him to the ground and loosening the cue from his grip.

Dean's ears were ringing. His vision swam. Amazingly, he always forgot how damn much it _hurt_ when fists collided with bone. The impact was enough to stun him, causing him to taste his own blood.

Instinct took over. Dean brought his arms up, deflecting a blow he hadn't seen coming. Rolling quickly to the right, he pushed himself to his feet and immediately stumbled backwards as a flash of gold and rubies crashed across his vision. Arms caught him and tossed him forward. He fell swinging, blinking blood from his eye and snarling as his knuckles cracked against something solid.

"Sam!" This time his brother's name was less of a warning, more of a plea. He was getting his ass handed to him by a group of locals and his brother was AWOL. "Could use a hand here!"

"'M comin'," Sam called back.

Dean risked another look at Sam, ducking a swing from Lloyd's fist and pushing him into Sal, knocking them both over. Blinking in surprise, Dean saw Jones out cold on the floor, his head bleeding and a broken Johnny Walker Red bottle gripped by the neck in Sam's hand.

Someone seemed to hover in the shadows behind Sam, but Dean couldn't focus on the figure.

"'M comin', D'" Sam hiccupped, stumbling forward.

Dean shook his head, tried to clear his vision, reaching out with the intent to catch Sam before he took a header to the floor. In a series of events that happened too fast for Dean's foggy brain to register, Sam seemed to disappear from view, replaced by the imposing form of a man in a red flannel shirt. Dean was caught around the waist and crushed to the ground from behind.

Gasping as the air rushed from him, Dean flipped around to his back, struggling against the hold on his body, working to get his fists up, his legs up, to get _something_ between himself and the blows raining down on him.

When a hand ground hard into his left shoulder, Dean saw white. He felt a raw burn in his throat as a scream of pain tore through him, echoing through his head. He twisted again, desperate for release, but felt himself falling, tumbling, shaking.

"ENOUGH!"

The woman's voice bore witness to too many cigarettes and just the right amount of whiskey. As the fists paused and the hand on his shoulder slacked, Dean blinked up at the blonde bartender wading into the melee, a shotgun at home in her hands.

"Get. Up. Now."

Lloyd and Sal stayed where they were and the bartender cocked the shotgun.

"Don't test me, boys. I'm not afraid to clean up a little blood now and again."

Sal and Lloyd released Dean and stood, backing away. Dean slowly crab-crawled with one arm until he felt the wall against his back. Using the wall as support, he painfully dragged himself to his feet, slouching there and blinking blurred eyes at the woman facing the locals.

The bar was silent except for the rhythmic chants of Deep Purple's _Hush_ from the jukebox.

"Bar's closed."

"Maggie—"

"Sal, I'm fuckin' sick of you and your bunch bustin' up my place. I see you round here again, it's gonna be the last time, you get me?"

"You can't do that," Sal shook his head, squaring off with Maggie.

The weathered bouncer appeared as if from thin air, standing weaponless behind Maggie and looking more dangerous than the shotgun she held in her hands. The shadow Dean had seen behind Sam materialized and joined the bouncer, the bar lights making his red flannel shirt appear black. Dean blinked again, trying to see his face.

"I want you out of here," Maggie said, not even bothering to glance at the men backing her up.

"He hustled us," Sal pointed to Dean. "He and that other guy."

_Sam…_ Dean turned his head to find his brother and felt the world shift under his feet. His shoulder seared, pain flashing up into his teeth and making his fingers throb. He pressed his right hand flat against the wall, desperate for balance.

"Well, that's just too damn bad for you," Maggie shot back. "Guess you ain't the shark you thought you were."

Lloyd moved over to pick up Jones from the floor, draping his arm over his shoulder. Maggie lifted a dark eyebrow, her green eyes dancing in the light of the bar. _Hush_ gave way to Triumph's _Spellbound_ and Dean licked his lips, his breath stuttering and his stomach lurching from the pain.

"You know, this isn't over," Sal said, pointing at Maggie, then turning to point at Dean.

Dean tipped his chin up, unable to reply even if he had something clever to say. _Sam, where the hell are you…_

"Whatever you say, Sal," Maggie's words were controlled, her reluctance to walk in bull shit obvious in her tone. "Now, get the hell out."

Sal led the way, followed by Lloyd who was dragging Jones along with him. Maggie glanced around at the five or six remaining patrons.

"Closing early tonight, folks," she said, her voice softening with hospitality. "C'mon back tomorrow."

As the people filed out, the door swung open letting sounds of motorcycles and car engines into the bar. The fierce barking of a dog reached Dean's ears and he frowned in momentary confusion before being distracted by Maggie's voice yet again.

"You, too, sweetheart," she was saying, her voice even softer than before. "Time to head on out."

"I am leaving." The voice that answered was feminine, quiet, and held a tick of an accent that Dean couldn't trace. The petite brunette crossed his path and walked from the pool table to the front door, an odd halo shimmering around her through his blurred eyes.

Dean was losing his battle with gravity. As the front door banged shut a final time, he felt his hand slip along the wall, his knees trembling. The edges of his vision grayed and he pulled in air through his nose, desperate to remain conscious.

Maggie turned to him, handing the shotgun behind her. The bouncer grabbed it from her, resting the stock on his shoulder. She ticked her head to the side.

"Bobby," she murmured the name like a curse. "What the hell'd you send me this time?"

Dean's knees buckled and he met the darkness with a sigh.

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"That one okay, Yeats?" Maggie's voice was brisk, business-like, but worry flowed like a riptide from her bent form.

"Seems to be." Yeats' voice slid around the empty voice sounding like rock being pulverized by a grudging force. "Just passed out drunk."

"Well," Maggie sighed. "This one ain't so lucky."

Crouching next to the crumbled figure of the battered hunter, Abe Nakomis listened to the quick exchange of voices, his eyes on the familiar, bruised, bloody face before him. It seemed he was destined to run into Dean Winchester when life had tried its best to break him. Wincing at the sight of the damaged knuckles, Abe remembered another time when Dean had gone down swinging.

As necessary to him as breathing, the healing chants of the Ojibwa people immediately echoed in Abe's head, though he'd left the reservation behind months ago. Abe unbuttoned the cuffs of his red flannel shirt, rolling the sleeves to his elbows, and passed his empty hands over Dean's still form quickly, as if doing so could pull the pain from him. A song crooned from the jukebox and made him pause with memory.

_"Half my life's in books' written pages. Lived and learned from fools and from sages. You know it's true, all the things you do come back to you…"_

"That gonna help him?" Maggie's voice was soft against his ear. She hadn't know his story, didn't know his history, but she accepted him as one of them on sight when he'd shown up at her door, and for that the Ojibwa hunter was in her debt.

"No," Abe shook his head. "But it won't hurt, either."

"You know these boys, Abe?" Maggie's tone shifted.

Abe looked over at her. "They're hunters."

"Doesn't answer my question."

Abe glanced at Sam, slumped at the base of the bar where he'd placed him when the liquor had tried to expedite gravity. He looked back at Dean, the young face guarded even in oblivion.

"Yeah," he said softly. "I know them."

"Yeats, go check on their car." Maggie raised her voice, addressing the bouncer. "Uh… Chevy Impala… probably one of the only ones in the lot. I think I heard Sal's smart mouth saying something about it."

The front door creaked open to reveal unintelligible shouts and curses, then banged shut as Yeats stepped outside to do Maggie's bidding.

"I'll get some ice," Maggie said, clicking her teeth together as she stood.

Carefully, Abe slid his sinewy hands under Dean's curled shoulder, straightening him out to a visually more comfortable position. The groan that crept from the parted lips had Abe pulling his hands away as if they'd been burned. With surprise, he looked at the smear of blood along his palm.

"What the—" He wiped the blood on the sleeve of his shirt, then peeled away the corner of denim to expose a slash of red spreading across a white T-shirt.

"Maggie," he barked.

"I'm moving as fast as I can," she replied, her voice slightly muffled.

"Bring some bandages," Abe commanded. "Wait, wait… I think he's coming around."

Lashes long enough to portray youth blinked up to reveal green eyes that had left innocence behind. Abe found his gut knotting as he waited to hear the first words uttered as Dean focused on him.

"Where's Sam?" Dean's voice was rough, thick with pain, but demanding.

Abe released a breath of tension, thankful that the hunter hadn't once again mistaken him for his father in a confused tangle of pain.

"He's okay," Abe tried to soothe him.

Dean tried to push himself up to his elbows, stopping with a hiss and closed his eyes tight. "Where is he?" He growled through clenched teeth.

Abe waited until Dean's eyes blinked open once more, then nodded over his shoulder. "He's over there, up against the bar."

"They hurt him?"

Abe shook his head. "No. I'm afraid he did that all on his own."

A line bisected Dean's brows, crawling up to meet folds of worry on his forehead. His eyes darted over Abe's shoulder, but Abe could tell he couldn't see Sam. Dean tried to push himself upright again and this time Abe reached for his arm, silently asking permission before he helped him rest back against the wall.

"Your shoulder's bleeding," Abe pointed out.

Dean glanced down. "Son of a bitch."

Maggie appeared in Abe's periphery. Setting a white plastic mop bucket near Sam's slumped form, she turned and crouched next to Abe, across from Dean, careful not to obstruct his view of his brother.

"Here," she said, her throaty voice calling Dean's wavering attention. "Drink this."

She trust a wide-mouthed shot glass filled with dark, yellow liquid toward him.

"What is it?"

"Irish chicken soup," she replied, the corner of her mouth turning down in what seemed to pass as both a smile and an order. "From the looks of you, you're gonna need it."

Dean looked at her a moment, then swallowed the beverage in one healthy toss. He immediately gasped, blinking watery eyes.

"That'll wake you up in the morning," Maggie said.

"What the hell…" Dean wheezed.

She handed him a bag of ice wrapped in a white bar towel. "Put this on your face," she instructed. "I'm gonna take a look at that shoulder."

Dean took the proffered ice pack, but shook his head when she reached for his shoulder. "It's okay."

"And I was homecoming queen," she scoffed. "Suck it up and let me take a look."

"How much did he have?" Dean asked, pressing the ice gingerly against his bruised cheekbone and eye, nodding once more at his now-snoring brother.

"I cut him off after four shots," Maggie said, handing Abe the bandages and bottle of antiseptic she'd brought so that she had both hands free to reach for Dean's shirt.

"Lightweight," Dean snorted.

"'Course, that was after he had six pints," Maggie finished.

"Jesus, Sammy," Dean cursed, tipping his head back against the wall as Maggie peeled away his shirt, exposing the blood-stained T-shirt underneath.

"Sal didn't do this," Maggie stated.

Dean simply closed his eyes. Abe watched the lines tighten on Dean's face as Maggie slid his arm free of the denim shirt, then pulled off the saturated bandage, tossing it aside. He frowned at the sight of the torn skin on Dean's upper shoulder, edged with red and raw from abuse, bruising spreading across his clavicle and crawling up his neck.

"That's a bullet hole," Abe muttered.

"Someone sure butchered you good, digging the slug out," Maggie grumbled in a tight voice.

Abe saw Dean's lips quirk slightly in response.

"Should've had stitches."

"Wasn't time," Dean replied, glancing away, his jaw tightening as her fingers continued to probe.

The front door banged shut drawing three pairs of eyes.

Yeats stared back, his craggy face expressionless. "Car's fine," he announced, his quick eyes zeroing in on Maggie before he glanced at the other two. His thick, white mustache twitched once. "Want I should let the dog in?"

"Dog?" Abe found himself asking.

Yeats nodded.

Abe turned back to Dean. "You two got a dog?"

"No," Dean shook his head, finally looking at Abe with more than empty eyes. Recognition was settling in slowly like an ancient man sinking into a chair. Abe found himself relaxing slightly in relief.

"Well, it's got you," Yeats replied, an eyebrow crooked. "Wouldn't get off the car."

"It's _on_ my _car_?" Dean leaned forward, rewarded for his outburst by the strong-armed push of Maggie's restraining hand.

Abe caught sight of the green and black maze of her Celtic tattoo on the inside of her forearm.

"Sit still," she ordered.

"Wouldn't let no one near it, either," Yeats finished, crouching down next to Sam who, Abe noticed, was beginning to frown a bit in his sleep, his lips pushed out and his face pale and sweaty.

"Wait," Dean said, gritting his teeth with a groan as Maggie cleaned the blood from his shoulder. "The dog wouldn't let anyone near… what?"

"Your car," Yeats replied, standing to fill a white mug with steaming coffee from a decanter sitting on the top edge of the bar. He looked down at Sam, frowned, then reached behind the bar and grabbed a bottle of whiskey, adding a generous shot to the coffee, evidently deciding Sam was too far gone for caffeine to be much help.

"Scared the shit out of Sal and his bunch when they tried to go for the tires," Yeats said with a low chuckle as he sipped the steaming beverage.

Abe shot a look at Dean and saw the grin he was expecting. Sam's low groan knocked the smile from Dean's face as quick as a slap. He started forward again and this time Maggie didn't push him back, but offered him a hand.

"Sammy?"

"Don' feel s'good," Sam muttered, eyes closed.

Maggie shifted on her knees, one strong hand on Dean's right bicep, balancing him as he crawled from the wall to the base of the bar and dropped down next to Sam.

"Yeah, I don't expect you do," Dean answered. "What were you trying to do, drink the place dry?"

Sam blinked one eye open, regarding his brother with a look of relief laced with shame.

"Forget," Sam whispered, his chin quivering. He closed his eye.

Abe watched as Dean sucked his lips against his teeth, sliding his eyes to the side. His left arm tucked protectively against his side, Dean reached up to carefully brush some hair away from Sam's eyes, barely touching his brother, but conveying a lifetime of loyalty with that gesture.

"Thought you wanted to remember," Dean said softly.

"Did." Sam opened blurry eyes, resting them on nothing. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Dean stiffened. "Tell you what?"

"Tell me… that I shot you."

Abe blinked in surprise and caught the slight jerk of Maggie's head as she brought it up, bright eyes darting between the brothers.

"Wasn't you, Sam," Dean was saying, his hand now on the back of Sam's neck as the younger man's face continued to lose color, gray turning to a greenish, chalky white as Sam swallowed convulsively.

"Saw you," Sam was saying. He swallowed hard, pulling in air through his nose. "Standing on the dock. Felt the gun kick. And you… you just…"

"Easy," Dean soothed as he reached for the plastic bucket, sliding it smoothly between Sam's outstretched legs, holding his brother's neck as Sam heaved, releasing the copious amounts of alcohol he'd ingested. "Easy, Sammy."

Abe didn't know what Sam was talking about. The brothers he knew would willingly die for each other without a second thought. Sam shooting Dean was as unbelievable as—

"It wasn't you, man," Dean crooned, his fingers flexing carefully on the back of Sam's neck. "Told you this. She possessed you. _She_ shot me."

"Holy shit," Abe breathed. It had been months since he'd seen them. In that time his life had taken a left turn from normal, but it seemed that their lives had just been filled with more of the same. Pain, paranormal, and perseverance.

"Here," Maggie said, reaching across Abe and sliding a wet towel into Dean's outstretched hand.

Abe watched as Dean gently ran the towel over Sam's sweaty forehead, along one cheek, and then laid it across the back of his neck. Sam was panting, holding the edges of the bucket. Abe sat back on his heels, pressing the back of his wrist against his mouth, watching the brothers.

A thin trickle of blood was drying along Dean's profile from where Sal's ring had sliced open his eyebrow. A muscle in his jaw was bouncing almost in beat to the music from the jukebox. Abe could see the tremble coursing through his body from where he crouched, but Dean's eyes never left Sam's heaving form, his hand steady and sure on his brother's neck.

The horrible retching sounds finally stopped and Sam slumped back against the bar, raising a shaking hand to his lips. "Never 'gain," he whispered.

"Want some water?" Dean asked.

Sam nodded carefully as if afraid his head would roll from his shoulders and across the bar if he moved too much. Dean lifted his eyes and Abe saw Yeats hand down a tumbler of water as if he'd anticipated the request. Dean lifted the glass to Sam's lips and helped him drink.

"Slow sips, man," Dean instructed.

"You boys sure picked one helluva hustle," Maggie shook her head, standing up, joints popping on the journey. "Maybe next time you can just grab a beer and the key and save us all the trouble, huh?"

Dean blinked up at her, his bruised eye squinted closed. "Key?"

Maggie quirked her head to the side. "You're Bobby's boys, yeah? Here for the safe house?"

Abe watched as Dean's eyes shuttered, carefully masking something that had crossed his face at the mention of Bobby. Sam reached up and took the glass from Dean, pressing one hand flat against the floor and holding the glass of water at his waist.

"Wait, you're M. Flynn?" Dean asked.

"Maggie Flynn," she nodded.

Dean looked up at Yeats, then over at Abe, sliding his eyes back to Maggie. "You're a hunter?"

"Nope." Maggie shook her head.

Abe saw Dean's eyes dart in thought.

"Married to one?" he asked.

"God, no." Maggie's chuckle was deep, shaking her shoulders slightly. She rested an elbow on the bar, cocking her hips to the side. "Hunters might be as sexy as cowboys, but they'll hurt you twice as bad."

"Damn right." Yeats' gravely voice cut in.

"I learned that lesson a long time ago," she said, her voice softening as she bent to retrieve the messy bucket and take it into the back room.

The jukebox ticked to an empty slot in the rotation and the bar went silent. Abe stayed still, watching the scene quietly. Yeats was leaning against the bar, slowly sipping his coffee. A low rumble of what might pass for a tune bounced around deep in his throat. His dark eyes rested on the middle distance as he waited for Maggie to return.

With a tired sigh, Dean pivoted and sat next to Sam, back against the base of the bar. Abe watched him pull his left arm against his chest, cupping his shoulder with his right hand. The open wound was no longer bleeding, but looked ragged and painful. Dean's green eyes were shadowed with fatigue and bruises, and there was a cut on his lip Abe hadn't registered before.

"You know I'm gonna give you shit about this in the morning," Dean said softly to his brother, tipping his head back, his arm resting lightly against Sam's.

"I know," Sam muttered, his lips pouted out, eyes on the floor between his legs.

"Not that you don't deserve it."

"You're one to talk."

"When's the last time I puked in a bar?"

Sam paused, brought his head up, blinking at Abe.

"Hey, Abe," he said, his voice carrying a sleepy, pleased lilt that made Abe smile in return.

"Hey, Sam," Abe returned.

"Holy shit," Dean breathed, bringing his head forward, blinking tired eyes wide. "Abe."

Abe nodded back at Dean. "Wondered when you'd put it together."

"What the hell are _you_ doing here?"

Maggie stepped back into the room, freshly washed bucket in her hands, water dripping from the edges and leaving a tiny path from the door to Sam's side. She set the bucket down, then stepped over Sam's long legs to crouch next to Dean once more.

"I'm, uh… visiting," Abe hedged.

Maggie wet a gauze pad with antiseptic and gently moved Dean's soiled shirt away from the open wound. Dean jerked when the gauze touched the damaged skin, bouncing against Sam and eliciting a low moan of protest from his brother.

"Dude," Sam complained. "Don't shake me."

"Sorry," Dean snapped. "I'll try and remember that for your next bender."

Sam pulled his legs up, balancing his elbows on his knees and resting his head in his hand. "Not like I do this all the time."

"No? Two words, Sam. Connecticut and Jagermeister."

Abe resisted the urge to shake his head. Siblings were strange creatures. Siblings who lived in each other's pockets were unique.

Sam turned his head carefully, his fingers knotted in his long hair. "There were—" he hiccupped, then groaned. "Esssstinuating cir—_hic_—cumstances."

"Whatever you say, Dude." Dean dropped his head back and Abe could see that he wanted to pull away from Maggie again.

"Okay, boys, that's enough." Maggie's voice was flat, leaving no room for protest. "Sam, I've got enough to clean up 'round here. You keep that bucket close."

"'M okay," Sam mumbled.

"Dean, hold still so I can patch this up, or I am going to get my needle."

"Yes, ma'am," Dean sighed.

"Yeats," Maggie lifted her voice. "Why don't you take Sam over to the house while I—"

"No," the brothers interrupted in unison.

"I got him," Dean said quickly. "I'll take him."

Maggie's lips twisted in disapproval. "While I appreciate familial loyalty as much as the next guy, I doubt you're gonna be able to take yourself, let alone your giant of a brother."

Dean's eyes met Maggie's squarely. "You might be surprised what I can do."

Abe stood, watching as Maggie absorbed the rebuff and continued to silently dress Dean's wound. Words and images tangled in Abe's head; memories he'd unconsciously stored, memories that had driven him to this lifestyle, to this purpose, to this mission.

"_We're not leaving him, Dad."_

_"It's my job. You know that, Dad."_

"So, uh, Abe," Dean grunted, pulling Abe back to the present. "You… aw, _damn_…"

Abe watched him squeeze his eyes closed as Maggie pressed down on the wound, closing the skin before she applied a bandage.

"You… visiting Maggie, here?" Dean finished, panting.

"Ha!" Maggie barked out the laugh.

"No," Abe shook his head, his grin soft. "No, I'm just… passing through. Thought I'd rest up here for a bit."

"Sure, sure," Dean said, releasing the breath he'd been holding as Maggie finished taping the bandages in place. "Seems like a good place to, uh… rest," he teased as Maggie started in on the cut above his eye.

"I'm gonna start cleaning up," Yeats growled, setting his coffee cup on the bar with a hard thump, stalking past the group huddled on the floor.

"Was it something I said?" Dean asked.

Sam huffed out a low laugh at that.

"Don't mind him," Maggie muttered. "He's just been with me a long time. Gets a little protective."

"Sorry," Dean offered sincerely. "I didn't mean—"

"No, no," Maggie shook her head, finishing the cut off with a butterfly bandage. "Not _with me_ in that sense. He helps me run the _Hideout_."

"'Kay," Dean nodded.

"Well, I don't think I can do much more here," Maggie said, sitting back on her heels with a satisfied nod at Dean's bruised face. "You ready to head to the house?"

Sam nodded. Dean reached above himself for the lip of the bar and used it to gain his feet with a groan. Once vertical, he swayed dangerously and Abe was next to him in an instant, hands on his front and back to balance him.

"Take it easy," Abe said. "Don't want to have to carry you out of here."

"I got it," Dean said, nodding down at Abe's hands. "You can let go."

"You sure?"

"Help Sam," Dean instructed, leaning heavily against the bar as Abe released him. He slid his left arm back into the loose sleeve of his denim shirt.

Giving Dean one more glance, Abe reached down and tucked his hands under Sam's arms, lifting him to his feet and instantly shoving a shoulder into Sam when the taller man threatened to topple.

"You're not gonna hurl on him, are you, Sammy?"

"Shut up," Sam groaned. "Never again, man."

"Uh-huh." A grin was plain in Dean's voice. "That's what we all say. Until there _is_ a next time."

"No next time." Sam kept his eyes closed as Abe slowly turned them toward the front door.

Dean waited until they'd passed by and then followed. Abe was struck once again by memory. There was so much he wanted to ask them. Where had they been? What had happened to them? What had they hunted? Had John told them that he'd met Abe? Why wasn't he with them yet again?

Maggie crossed in front of Abe, the key to the brick house clutched in her fist, and opened the door.

"Yeats," she called over her shoulder. "Don't let the place burn down."

Yeats muttered something back as they exited the bar into the night. Abe heard the door bang shut behind them and adjusted his grip on Sam's arm flung over his shoulder, curling his fingers in Sam's belt loop. The cooler air of the night seemed to revive the tall hunter slightly and Abe felt Sam straighten against him.

"Uh, Dean," Sam called.

"I see it," Dean replied.

Confused, Abe looked around, only then noticing a large, wolf-like canine perched on the hood of the Impala like a masthead. The animal's brown eyes were mild but alert, its ears up and tracking the sounds of the four humans. Its undercoat was a dirty white and its back was gray, with a smudge of black crossing the bridge of its nose. If it weren't for the black, Abe would have sworn he was looking at a wolf.

"Dean, wait," Abe warned as Dean began to approach the car with a wavering, unsteady gait. Abe frowned.

"I need to get our bags," Dean replied, keeping his eyes on the dog, walking in more or less of a straight line toward the driver's side door. The dog kept its eyes on Dean, watching as he unlocked the door, reached in and retrieved Sam's messenger bag, then backed out, closing it behind him.

Warily eyeing the dog, Dean backed around to the trunk, opening it, and setting out three duffels.

"Somebody wanna give me a hand with these?" Dean called, one hip pressed against the trunk, his focus on the dog who had twisted its head sideways in order to return Dean's stare.

"I got it," Sam tried, stepping away from Abe on rubber legs.

"Oh, no you don't, sweetheart," Maggie protested. "I may be a tough old broad, but I prefer carrying bags over lifting your pretty ass up off this ground."

Dean handed her one of the duffels of clothes.

"Dean," she said softly. "I think that's a Lobo."

"A what?"

"A Lobo," Abe echoed. "Part wolf, part dog. Doesn't really fit in with either pack. It's too wild for humans to tame and too tame to survive in the wild."

"Just keep clear," Maggie suggested, turning back toward the safe house. "It'll be gone by morning."

Dean rested his eyes on the dog, tilting his head in curiosity. "Why do you think it's sitting on my car?"

"Not sure," Abe said, starting to turn Sam around, looking away from Dean. "But Maggie's right. It'll probably be gone by morning."

"Dean, what the hell—" Sam pulled roughly away from Abe, planting his feet purposely to keep from falling on his ass.

Abe and Maggie turned to follow, both uttering low hisses of warning as Dean reached out and let the dog sniff his hand. The Lobo studied Dean a moment, then leaned its snout forward, sniffing the back of Dean's fingers, allowing him to rotate his hand and reach up to scratch behind its ears.

"Atta boy," Dean murmured.

"I'll be a dirty name," Abe said, admiration in his voice.

Dean turned from the car and the Lobo hopped down, trotting ahead to the house as if it knew where they were going. Abe heard Dean chuckle.

"Sammy," he said, stepping up next to his weaving brother. "I think we might've gotten that dog you always wanted."

"Wanted a _puppy_," Sam muttered. "When I was nine."

Dean clapped a hand on Sam's shoulder, then gripped him when his affection threatened to topple him. "Better late than never, I guess."

Abe grabbed the heavier weapons bag from the dirt next to the car, then took the clothes bag from Dean, nodding that Dean should follow Maggie.

"Not sure I like leaving her out here exposed like this," Dean said over his shoulder.

It took Abe a moment to realize he was referring to the car.

"It's not gonna be hard for those idiots to figure out where we went," he continued.

"I'll move it for you," Abe offered. He drew up short when both Sam and Dean stopped in their tracks, pivoting to stare at him with something akin to horror. "What? I drove it once before!"

Dean shook his head. "Yeah well, there were… what was that you said, Sam?"

"Extenuating circumstances," Sam provided, squinting in the lights from the bar at Abe, his eyes half-mast.

"Right, that," Dean nodded. "No offense, man, but… I barely let my brother drive her."

Sam shrugged, nodding ruefully.

"Okay, fine," Abe lifted his fingers in surrender, the canvas straps of the duffel hooked on his thumbs. "Just offered."

"Door's open," Maggie called, and the trio turned to join her on the porch.

Abe looked around the porch, but saw no sign of the Lobo. He followed the boys into the small brick building, dropping the bags inside the door. It was a one-room house, one set of bunk beds and a separate single bed on the far wall, a nightstand with a phone and a light between them.

A pot-bellied, wood-burning stove, large, round, braided rug in the center of the floor, and a square table with four chairs covered the space between the beds and a small door that led to a bathroom. A kitchenette with fridge, stove, sink and cabinets flanked the far wall. Directly across from the front door was a wide, multi-paneled window with heavy curtains flanking either side.

Abe watched the boys take in the surroundings with one sweep of their eyes, then Sam stumbled directly to the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

"This gonna work?" Maggie asked, dropping the brass skeleton key on top of the table.

"It's great, Maggie," Dean nodded picking up the bag of weapons and setting it with a hefty _thunk_ next to the key. "Really appreciate this."

Abe shifted back to the shadows, leaning against the wall, watching. Dean had changed in the months since he'd seen them. It was more than the wounds, more than the life he knew they led. There was something missing inside of his young friend. A spark of life that had saved him in the woods that night so long ago. A palpable feeling of devastation had replaced the gritty determination Abe had seen before.

"Bobby said you needed it," Maggie shrugged. "That's enough for me."

Rubbing the fingers of one hand across his tired eyes, Dean sank slowly down into one of the chairs, evidently unwilling to give in to exhaustion until they had left or Sam emerged.

"So," he said, blinking up at Maggie. "You're not a hunter. Not married to one. But… you know about them. Us."

Maggie glanced back at Abe, who kept his face carefully blank.

"Let's just say that Bobby Singer and I have… a history," Maggie said, her eyes sliding around the room, resting on nothing. "I owe him."

Abe saw Dean's eyes settle on her, understanding making them appear too large for his face. Dean pulled his lower lip in, then dropped his chin. The bathroom door opened and Sam stumbled out with a groan.

"Kill me now," Sam muttered.

Abe suppressed the urge to draw in a breath at the sight of Sam. It wasn't simply weariness and drink that clung to the younger man like tendrils of a nightmare. Sam was wading through something, running from something, carrying something that he didn't know how to hold onto. If Dean reeked of devastation, Abe suddenly saw that it was because the acid of Sam's guilt was eating through both of them.

His lips twisting in a slightly malicious grin, Dean tilted his head over his shoulder, addressing his brother. "Aw, c'mon, Sammy, it's not so bad. Everyone needs to get shitfaced once in awhile."

"Says you," Sam grumbled, stopping forward movement when his shins hit the single bed, then tilting forward to land on his belly across the mattress.

"Poor kid," Dean looked up at Abe. "Always easier going down than coming back up."

"Shut up, Dean," Sam pleaded, his voice muffled by the pillow.

Chuckling slightly, Dean pushed himself to his feet, making his way over to the bed. He pulled Sam's boots off, lifting his brother's long legs by the ankles and setting them on the bed. Sam shimmied up, shoving his arms beneath the pillow and burrowing his face deeper.

Dean pulled the blanket from the top bunk, shaking it loose and spreading it over Sam's legs and across his back.

"G'night, bitch," Dean said, fingers resting lightly on the back of Sam's head.

"Jerk," was a whisper against cotton.

Dean looked down at his brother for one moment more, then turned to face the other two in the room.

"So, you gonna tell me about this hunt?"

www

"Hunt?" Maggie asked innocently.

Dean ignored her for the moment, turning to look at Abe, a _don't bullshit me_ expression plain on his face. The older man seemed to settle into himself, his dark, lined face registering understanding and acceptance. Dean vividly remembered the dark eyes, the plaited hair, the silver earring. He remembered the voice mostly, the voice that had caught him when he'd fallen into the dark, that had carried him through the woods, that had saved him, saved Sam.

_I'm sorry I forgot you…_

"Let's talk on the way back to your car." Abe acquiesced.

Maggie shot Abe a look of surprise. "You're gonna tell him?"

Abe lifted a shoulder. "He already knows."

"Bobby said to keep them safe," Maggie protested. "A hunt isn't safe."

"Bobby means well, Maggie," Dean said, stepping toward the door. "But he doesn't always know what's best for us."

"Dean, you need to rest," Maggie reached out to put a hand on his arm.

Instinctively, Dean flinched away, turning to face the care on the woman's face. "I will. After I hear what made Abe, here, turn hunter."

Abe looked at Dean once more, wrapping long fingers around the door knob. "You did," he said, stepping out into the night.

Dean blinked at his back, then looked at Maggie. "Well, now I _really_ gotta know."

Maggie sighed with a shake of her head. "I think I'm gonna regret telling Bobby yes…" she joined Dean on the porch. "But, guess it wouldn't be the first time."

"Hey, Maggie, you mind staying here until I move the car?" Dean asked, looking back at the brick house. "Don't really want to leave Sam alone."

"I don't think that's going to be a problem," Abe said from the base of the steps.

Dean turned to follow his eye line, stifling a surprised jerk as his muscles constricted. The Lobo sat at the edge of the porch, ears up, regarding Dean with curious eyes.

"Hey, boy," Dean said, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. He hesitated a moment, then nodded, addressing the dog, "Okay, well… don't let anyone get past you." He stepped down next to Abe, then turned back. "That includes Sam."

The Lobo stretched his paws forward, lowering his belly to the porch, and rested his head on his legs. The trio turned from the small house tucked safely behind the bar to walk around to the front of the building.

At the edge of the _Hideout, _Maggie paused, turning to point behind them. "About a hundred yards out, the property runs into the Clear Water River."

"Okay," Dean nodded, not really interested in a geography lesson.

"It's about a twenty foot drop to the river," Maggie informed him.

"Ah," Dean nodded. "So… just make sure we don't go jogging into the woods at night."

Maggie simply lifted a brow, then without a word of farewell, left them to return to the bar. Dean continued to the car, then leaned against the Impala, watching Abe, waiting for the story. He didn't have to wait long.

"When you left, I was unable to return to my life," Abe started. "It was as if a curtain had been pulled away and I realized I'd been only seeing half of reality all my life."

Dean reached over and gripped his left shoulder, trying to press back the continuous, throbbing ache there. His eyes dropped to trace patterns of boot prints in the dirt, lit from the neon lights of _Maggie's Hideout_. Abe began to pace, a sign Dean easily recognized as someone explaining something for the very first time.

"Doc—you remember him?"

Dean nodded. "Steven Tyler stunt double."

"Right. Doc never did believe me, not really. Not even after Running Horse healed you. When he talked to your dad, it was all—"

"Wait, what?" Dean was grateful that he'd been leaning against the car. His legs suddenly felt cold, weightless, as if they'd disappeared. "Doc talked to my dad?"

"Yeah, why? He didn't tell you?"

_The amount of things he didn't tell me would choke a giant…_

"No," Dean breathed. "No, he didn't tell me."

Abe stopped pacing, turning to face Dean, concern on his face. "Your dad showed up at the clinic the same night you guys left. Looked… tired. Was worried about you. Seemed… I don't know… sad, I guess."

Dean felt the coldness in his legs travel up to his gut, climbing slowly to his heart. John had been there. He felt his face pull tight in memory of need, of hope, of horrible disappointment. _Dad had been there_…

"So, uh…" Dean cleared his throat, tightening his fingers on his shoulder as the cold swept over the throb of heat that beat there. "Doc didn't believe you about… what?"

"Dean."

Abe stepped closer to him and Dean suddenly found it hard to pull in a breath. The cold inside was starting to make him shiver and he thought for sure his next exhale would be a visible condensation of air. He pressed subtly back against the car.

"What?" He meant it to be defiant. He sounded five. He looked at the front door of the bar. He looked at the night. At the stars poking through the blanket of night like a child's Light Bright. Anywhere but at Abe.

"What happened to you two?"

Dean glanced at him. Laughter tripped on irony as it stumbled out of his mouth and fell into the air between them.

"You said… earlier, in the bar, you said that Sam had been… possessed?"

"It's a long story, man," Dean said tiredly. "Too long."

Abe stepped back, and the pressure building inside Dean vanished. The Ojibwa's dark eyes saw more than Dean could hide, climbing through the cracks in his wall, peering at secrets safer buried. Clearing his throat, Dean turned and opened the car door, more to have something tangible between them than to actually climb inside the car.

"So… you're hunting?" Dean prompted.

Abe's face settled slowly, lines deepening around his eyes, questions stepping back into the queue until the time was right to move forward once more.

"I left the reservation about a month after you and Sam. I wasn't sure where to go, how to learn what you knew—"

"Dude, we've been doing this our whole lives," Dean said, pulling his head back.

"Exactly," Abe nodded, resuming his pacing. "All I knew was that there was a truth out there… a truth I had barely glimpsed and that no one else knew about. But they needed to be protected from."

Dean simply nodded, leaning on the window of the driver's door and watching Abe's measured steps as he rotated and returned to his point of origin, stepping in his own foot prints. It was a familiar habit. One that had often brought clarity to Dean.

"I read papers. Followed empty leads. Basically… wandered. I had never lived away from my people…" Abe glanced once at Dean. "The anonymity of a hunter became protection for someone like me."

"I can imagine."

"I found this place in Nebraska… a bar, kinda like this one."

"No freakin' way," Dean exclaimed.

"What?" Abe stopped, looking at him.

"This bar… was it run by a woman named Ellen?"

Abe nodded. "Yeah, she, uh, showed me a few things. Like weapons. Salt, for example. Didn't know about the salt."

"Holy shit," Dean shook his head. "The world is too damn small, man."

"You know of this place?"

"You could say that," Dean nodded.

Abe watched him for a minute, eventually realizing he wasn't getting anywhere honest with his silent wondering, and continued. "While I was there, a hunter came in, barely walking, eaten up from the inside out."

Dean's brows pulled together and he felt his mouth turn down as he leaned on the door, unconsciously closer to Abe.

"He collapsed two steps inside the door and all he got out was that he'd been chasing a witch and then… he died."

"Damn," Dean breathed, captivated.

"Ellen's girl—"

"Jo," Dean supplied.

"Jo, right, she was ready to find this witch. Got into it with her mom right then and there."

Dean grinned ruefully, thinking of the hot-headed blonde and her doe-brown eyes. _Wrong place, wrong time is right…_ "Yeah, that sounds like Jo."

"I started searching the man's pockets while the two of them went at it like a couple of wild cats and I find this."

Abe handed Dean a piece of worn, folded paper. Dean reached out and took the paper, unfolding it and peering at the words in the light from the bar's neon sign.

_"Throughout all the world there is nothing that's permanent. Even the Earth has the nature of transience. Bodies are centers of sorrow and emptiness. All of my parts are devoid of self, are dependent on causes and therefore impermanent, changing, decaying and out of control."_

"Um…" Dean read the first passage on the paper. "What the hell?"

"You got me." Abe shrugged. "It's a Buddhist Sutra."

"Okay…" Dean's eyebrows practically met over the bridge of his nose. "I repeat… what the _hell_?"

"I haven't been able to figure out what that has to do with a witch," Abe reached for the paper, taking it back from Dean, returning it to his pocket. "But… I _have_ found evidence of her curse."

"Yeah?" Dean folded the corners of his mouth down, eyebrows quirked in curiosity.

"The hunter at the Roadhouse died of something similar to belladonna poisoning. You ever hear of that?"

Dean grinned. "Belladonna…isn't that the name of a porn star?"

Abe blinked, surprise etching his features.

"Forget it," Dean waved a hand at him.

"It's a plant. My people called it the Devil's Herb. Its leaves and berries are extremely poisonous—irregular heart rate, hallucinations, loss of balance, blurred vision, and eventually suffocation."

"Sounds… swell."

"Yes, well," Abe rubbed a hand over his mouth. "The man who died in front of me, and the three other men I found as I followed the path from Nebraska to Oklahoma, to Western Texas suffered mightily before they died."

Dean frowned. "West Texas?"

"I just came from there. The last victim was a Liam Grayson. He was born near here, but… it's a thin lead." Abe shrugged. "I thought of returning to my people, but… I stopped here to see what Maggie and Yeats might know."

"Wait, they're not hunters, you're new to hunting, but you… you knew they could help you?"

Abe shrugged. "I listen," he said. "Maggie Flynn is known in the hunter community as a friend. And Yeats—"

"Yeah, what _is_ his deal?"

"No one really knows anything about him. Not even his real name."

"Coulda told you it wasn't friggin' _Yeats_…"

"But he'd lie down in traffic for Maggie."

Dean sighed, rubbing his burning eyes with one hand. "So, you're stuck."

"You could say that, yeah."

"You need our help."

"Only if you're ready to offer it," Abe said solemnly.

"This is what we do, man," Dean shrugged. "We don't know anything else."

"You're tired, Dean." Abe pointed out. "Your soul is tired."

"My _soul_ is fine," Dean snapped. "I just got shot by my brother two days ago and let some locals kick my ass because I wasn't paying attention. Gimme a day and I'll be back to normal."

Abe drew his head back, his eyes shadowed. In that instant, the neon sign above the entrance to Maggie's shut off.

"Guess she's pulling in the carpet," Dean commented. "You better go… wherever it is you go."

"See you in the morning, Dean Winchester," Abe said quietly, then turned on his heel and disappeared into the shadows at the edge of the building.

It had been a long time since anyone had said his name—his _full_ name—with such respect. Dean found that he'd forgotten to continue with the natural act of breathing. Pulling in a lungful of air, he dropped behind the wheel of the Impala, the scents of leather and life and Sam and survival wafted around him. The smell of home.

Shaking his head, Dean shoved the keys in the ignition, pulling the door closed, and turned the car on.

"Nothing's ever easy."

He hid the Impala behind the brick house, centered in a small cluster of trees, invisible from Maine Street. Locking the door, he headed back to the porch, nodding once at the Lobo.

"Good boy," he whispered. "If you're still here in the morning, I'll give you some jerky."

Lobo lifted an eyebrow, but didn't raise his head. Dean stepped in through the door and closed and locked it behind him.

"Dean?" Sam's sleepy voice drifted to him through the dark.

"Yeah."

"Just checkin'."

"You okay?"

"Thirsty."

"Hang on." Dean went to the kitchenette, grabbed a glass from the cabinet—pausing for one amusing moment at the predictability of human nature: glasses are kept either to the direct right or the direct left of the sink—and filled it with water. He crossed the room, bouncing a hip against the table in the unfamiliar landscape and found Sam's bed with his shins.

"Here, bro," Dean said, touching Sam's back.

Sam rolled over, accepting the glass, and raised himself to his elbow to drink. Dean dropped on the bottom bunk, toeing off his boots.

"Abe has a hunt doesn't he?" Sam asked once the glass was drained.

"Yeah."

"We gonna help?"

"Yeah."

"'Kay."

Dean shimmied free of his jeans, dropping them in a pile on the floor on top of his boots.

"Your shoulder okay?"

"It will be."

"You need some aspirin?"

"Got some."

"'Kay."

Dean pulled the covers back and eased the long-sleeved denim shirt from his arms, dropping it to the floor.

"Dean?"

"Hmm?"

"Just checking."

"What is it, Sam?"

There was a pause long enough that Dean's stomach muscles tightened.

"Sorry I… sorry I didn't help you with those bastards in the bar." Sam apologized quietly.

Dean closed his eyes. The fear of Sam being _gone_ hit him with the force of a punch. He could once again smell the stale cigarette odor of the motel where they'd been staying in West Texas. He could hear the silence greet him in response as he called Sam's name. He heard his brother's voice mail over and over. He felt the week of fear, of confusion, of anger, of loneliness, of failure, of want, of need, of not knowing who to call, who to go to, who to ask for help.

"Dean?"

When Dad had disappeared, Dean knew exactly what to do. He went to Sam. He found Sam. He knew he and Sammy could fight anything together. _Together._

When Sam disappeared… Dean had nothing. Dad was gone. Gone because of _him._ Gone to _save_ him. Desperation drove him to call Ellen, time and again. Need drove him to connect with Bobby. Fear drove him to call Sam's cell fifty times a day.

"Hey, man, you okay?"

Dean felt the sick rush of relief and hope and anger once more at the sound of Sam's voice after a week of not knowing if he should bother to continue. Finding that hotel room, finding Sam covered in blood… a flash of heat and chills had run through him leaving him weak and dizzy, even as instinct had taken over. _Do the job. Find the reason_.

Sam's bed creaked as he sat up in the dark, uncertainty in his voice. "Dean? You're scaring me, man."

Sam had asked him to kill him. Reminded him of his promise. Put the fucking _gun_ in his _hand_.

_I've tried so hard to keep you safe…_

"'M okay, Sam." His whisper was far from convincing.

"Are you hurting?"

_Hell, yes, I'm hurting. You shot me, Sam. You beat the shit out of me. You dug out the darkness, the doubt, everything ugly that I know to be true and you slapped me in the face with it. You said I was worthless. __**You**__ said I was __**worthless**_**…**

"I'll be okay," Dean said, barely audible. "Nothing some sleep won't fix."

"You sure?"

"Sure, I'm sure." Dean forced levity in his voice. "Just thinking about those sonsabitches back at the bar."

Sam paused, and for a moment Dean wondered if he sensed the lie.

"They were abused children," Sam shrugged. "Idiots, Dean."

"You're right there, brother."

Sam sank back on the bed, and Dean heard the glass clunk on the nightstand between the bunks and the single bed. He rotated, easing carefully back against the mattress and pillow. His body was ticking like a cooling engine. He felt his heartbeat in his shoulder, his eye, his head—nearly everywhere but his chest. He closed his eyes, feeling the moisture gather there immediately to combat the burn. He let the tears trail down the sides of his face into his hair in the dark.

"Hey, Dean?"

"Hmm?"

"Abe's hunt… it's not… clowns, or anything is it?"

Dean laughed softly. "No, Sam."

"Well, that's good."

"Get some sleep."

"'Kay."

Dad had met Abe. Dad had talked to Abe. Dad had been worried about them. Dean's mind went through the last times they'd seen their father like a film on fast forward. From Elkins' cabin to the hospital… so much he didn't know. So much John could have said. So many secrets. So many lies. So much regret. So much love.

_God, I miss you, Dad._

"I gotta feeling we're gonna have a long day tomorrow," Dean whispered to his softly-snoring brother.

* * *

a/n: I've outlined this story to six chapters, but in the past, six has always turned into eight, so, be warned. Also, it's been awhile since I've written a multi-chapter story of my own. Between the VS, zines, and co-writes, I had to get back into the groove; I hope you'll hang with me as I get my story legs back under me.

The sutra on the paper in the hunter's pocket is the _Sutra on the Eight Realizations_.

Playlist:

_Wheel In the Sky_ by Journey

_Hush_ by Deep Purple

_Spellbound _by Triumph

_Dream On_ by Aerosmith

When IN THE LIGHT is completed, it will be available as a zine from Agent With Style (www . agentwithstyle . com). For more information, go to their website or contact Mysti at zines agentwithstyle . com.


	2. See

**Disclaimer/Spoilers**: See Chapter 1

a/n: Copious amounts of thanks to all who have read and especially those who've taken time to review. The chapters are long, but I hope the time you spend with them is worthwhile. The movie in my mind started up in Technicolor in this chapter, so I hope you enjoy the journey.

One other thing—in Chapter 1, Abe references a memory of meeting John. While he will revisit that memory more in coming chapters, I did post an epilogue to _Ramble On_ over on supernaturalville[dotnet awhile back. If you're interested in seeing the whole event, I just wanted you to know. Not necessary to understand the events, however.

* * *

_"Oh, did you ever believe that I could leave you, standing out in the cold  
I know how it feels 'cause I have slipped through to the very depths of my soul.  
I just wanna show what I'd give you it is from every bend in the road"_

_-- Led Zeppelin, "In the Light"_

_"But you're…you're okay, and that's what matters. Everything else, we can deal with."_

www

It watched. Waited for its moment.

The power it gained from darkness was intoxicating. Feeding off hate gave it form, substance, made it tactile. Brought life to the impossible, reality to the non-existent.

Silent eyes drifted across empty landscape, searching for another, for a reason. Existence that began through vengeance persevered because of the weakness in humanity. It knew there would be a moment when darkness would fill it up; deeds better left buried deep in abashed psyches would feed it, degrading thoughts would sustain it.

And there would be blood.

www

For a moment, Sam couldn't remember where he was.

Awareness came to him in stages and he lay very still while he waited for his memory to catch up with his senses. He felt the give of a soft mattress beneath him, the tangle of sheets and a light blanket between his jean-clad legs, the sour-smelling pillow case pressed against his cheek.

Slowly, he ran his tongue across his dry lips, pulling them against his teeth and resisting the urge to suck in the saliva that had trickled from the corner of his mouth during his drunken slumber. The dull pound of his blood hummed menacingly behind his eyes, gathering at the back of his head and preparing an assault.

Forcing his heavy eyes open, he slid a clumsy hand up to his face and rubbed stiff fingers over his skin. Rolling over very slowly, he dug grit from his lashes and sighed deeply as he stared at the wooden slats of the exposed ceiling above him.

_Safe house…_

_Bar fight…_

_Dean… gun… bullet… pier… water…_

Sam squeezed his eyes shut as the battle his body had been gearing up for began between his head and his stomach. His mouth tasted like something had crawled inside, made a home between his teeth, and died. He vaguely remembered a white bucket and a blonde woman. Covering his face again, Sam breathed in through his nose, his hands filtering the scents of the morning.

_Coffee… bacon… Dean… gun… bullet…_

Trying to stifle the repetitive loop of memory, Sam shoved the covers free from him, dropping first one leg then the other over the side of the bed, pushing himself upright. He paused as the world caught up, tipping and rolling lazily around him, causing him to immediately regret any ambition of actually being functional.

Resting his elbows on his knees, he dropped his forehead to his palms, curling his fingers in his loose, shaggy hair.

_I've tried so hard to keep you safe…_

The memory of Dean's eyes, his voice, his naked belief that _Sam_ wouldn't do those things, that _Sam_ was innocent, that _Sam_ could be redeemed made him want another drink. Licking his lips once more, Sam raised bleary eyes to search for his brother.

He found him immediately, and stared in wonder.

Dean sat in one of the curved-back wooden chairs from the small kitchen table facing the opened doorway, feet propped up on the doorframe, chair tilted back on its rear legs. He held a cup of coffee in a white mug at his waist, his arm protectively tucked against his side, and was chewing on a piece of bacon, tossing every other bite out of the doorway.

Sam followed his toss and blinked in surprise as a large gray and white dog, sitting on the porch with its paws on the edge of the opening, caught the bite mid-air, swallowing it whole. He looked back at Dean and saw his brother grin openly.

"Atta boy," Dean said softly, evidently unaware that Sam was awake.

"Hey," Sam said, his voice husky with abuse and sleep.

Dean jerked slightly, then looked over, maintaining his casual balance on the chair's spindly legs. "Hey yourself," he returned. "How you feeling?"

"Stupid," Sam replied, trying to read Dean's eyes. They were shadowed in the morning light filtering in from the doorway. "We have toothpaste, right?"

"Already in the bathroom, man," Dean looked back at the dog. "We got a friend."

"So I see," Sam stood up, immediately realizing he had to pee. "Be right back."

"Take your time," Dean said, not looking at him. "Want s'more? Yeah, you do, dontcha?"

Sam watched him talk to the dog, shaking his head as he marveled at the years that stripped away from his brother's face when it relaxed in a genuine smile. He turned toward the bathroom, making quick business of showering and shaving, all the while avoiding looking directly in the mirror.

Snatches of images, like moments of a nightmare, slid across Sam's vision. _Breaking into a blue VW… hotwiring it… turning up music that would have made Dean cringe and swear…_ The taste of menthol cigarettes suddenly coated the back of his throat, making him gag. He leaned forward, gripping the edge of the sink, spitting into the basin, then turned on the water to wash the taste down the drain.

Lifting his head, he faced his reflection for a moment, staring hard at his own eyes, trying to see something there, anything residual from the demon inside, anything to show that he could break, that he could hurt Dean again.

_My plans for you, Sammy… and all the children like you…_

The memory of yellow eyes taunting him from the familiar features of his father shot fingers of horror down Sam's spine. He wondered if, in the moments of silence offered to him in the hospital, John had remembered feeling the being shove him aside and climb inside his body, using his arms, moving his lips, raping his mind, molesting his voice. He wondered if John had wanted to turn himself inside out, shake himself clean… or if there hadn't been time between _shoot me in the heart son _and _can we just not fight_ for John to have looked in the mirror.

An unfamiliar sound drew Sam's attention. Out in the main room, Dean was laughing.

The noise brought Sam around, turned him away from the mirror and his guilt. He searched his memory for the last time he'd heard Dean laugh with delight and came up empty. Balling up his dirty clothes, he stepped out into the open room, heading for his duffel. Dean had moved from the tipped-back chair to stand on the porch. He was leaning against one of the posts that led down the steps to the ground, throwing a stick toward the woods and watching as the dog grabbed it up and brought it back.

"Good boy, Lobo," Dean complemented, waiting until the dog dropped the stick on the top step and jumped back. Sam noticed his brother didn't touch the dog, and the dog didn't get close enough to allow it.

"You named him?"

Dean glanced at Sam over his shoulder. "Abe did, kinda," he said. "Told me that's what he is, so… figured it worked as good as anything else for a name."

Sam pulled a T-shirt over his head, tugging it down to cover the waistband of his jeans. He grabbed a long-sleeved shirt from his bag, dropping it on the bed to put on later, then moved over to the doorway, pulling the fresh morning air into his lungs, letting it clear his muddled head.

"He won't come inside," Dean said, tossing the stick again, and Sam noticed he kept his left arm pulled close to his body with the motion. "But he was still here when I got up this morning."

"Sat outside all night?" Sam asked, watching Lobo return with the stick between his teeth.

"That, or he just came back before I got up," Dean shrugged. He looked at Sam from the corner of his eyes. "You hungry?"

Sam shook his head. "I could use some coffee, though."

Dean tipped his head toward the small kitchen. "Help yourself."

"You're in a good mood," Sam observed, moving to the kitchen, grabbing a mug and filling it partly full with coffee, searching the cabinets for sugar and creamer.

"Why shouldn't I be?" Dean grunted as he threw the stick again, favoring his wounded shoulder.

"No reason," Sam said, finding sugar but no creamer and deciding that would have to do.

"We got a place to stay," Dean said, glancing at Sam as he joined him once more on the porch, "met up with an old friend, you're sober…"

"Ha, freakin' ha."

"Seriously, Sammy," Dean turned to face him fully. "You doing okay?"

Lobo stopped at the base of the steps, sat, and dropped the stick in front of him, his dark eyes darting between Sam and Dean.

"Yeah, I guess," Sam said, leaning on the opposite post from his brother. Their bodies made a 'V' with the toes of their boots practically touching, their backs against the wooden supports. "Just… remembering stuff. Comes in weird… flashes. A week's a long time."

Dean bobbed his head back with a quick exhale of air through his nose. "Tell me about it."

Sam sipped his coffee, frowning at the small space between their feet. "I know it was hard on you."

Dean looked away. Sam traced his eyes along the bruises framing Dean's face, the healing cut on his lip, the butterfly bandages above his brow. He knew he wasn't to blame for every mark, but he also knew that the ones he was responsible for had hurt the worst.

"I wouldn't have…" he started, searching for an apology that Dean would accept. "You know I didn't—"

"Sam," Dean shook his head slowly, peering into the bottom of his near-empty coffee cup. "You gotta cut this out, man. I mean," he looked up, his green eyes soft and serious, "it's enough already. I told you I _don't blame you_."

Sam tossed the rest of his coffee over the porch rail, causing Lobo to skitter sideways to avoid it. "How can you _not_?"

Dean's eyebrows folded together, his lashes effectively hiding the expression in his eyes from Sam's probing glance. "What do you mean? A friggin' _demon_ was in you, dude. She's the one that shot me."

Sam felt the emotion build, hot and fast. He felt his throat close and his lips quiver. He felt his eyes burn. "You saw _my _face, Dean."

Dean looked away once more, silent.

"Just like you saw Dad's."

"That was different." Dean's voice was low, guarded.

"How? How was it different? I keep hearing what she said to you, man. What _I_ said—"

"Jesus Christ, Sam, just let this go!"

Dean turned on his heel, stalking back into the cabin. Sam followed, not bothering to close the door behind him.

"No! No, I don't want to let it go. I keep remembering—the stolen car, the cigarettes...it's more than just killing Wandell and… and attacking Jo…"

Dean dropped his empty mug into the sink and gripped the edges of the counter, his shoulders bowing outward as he pressed his palms hard into the surface. He dropped his chin, but not before Sam saw the skin around his mouth tighten.

"I hit you with your gun, Dean. I shot you. I beat the _shit _out of you." The insane urge to push Dean, to back him against a wall, to _force_ him to admit that he was angry at Sam was almost physical. Sam curled his fingers against his palms.

"You got a point to all this, Sam?" Dean's head came up swiftly and Sam resisted the urge to back away from the heat he saw in his brother's eyes. "Because if it's just more of the same, you can save your breath."

"More of the same?"

Dean stepped around the counter, approaching Sam with a prowling, purposeful stride, his shoulders rolling, his hands fisted at his side.

"I wasn't about to let you kill yourself in Oregon," he snapped. "I was ready to go down with you—"

"You… you were what—"

"I gave you that whole _someone bigger is out there_ with Father Vengeance," Dean continued forward, waving his right arm through the air, causing Sam to back up several steps. "And I told you—I _told_ you—I was going to save you."

"Yeah, Dean, but—"

"But freakin' _nothing_!" Dean bellowed, finally stopping when he'd backed Sam up to the foot of his bed. "You need to Let. This. Go. You need to shake it off and _believe_ me, for Christ's sake!"

"I don't _not_ believe you, Dean!"

"Well, you coulda fooled me!"

"You're just one person, man," Sam leaned forward, not backing Dean away, but bringing his brother's eyes up to meet his. "You weren't able to stop it before—you weren't able to stop it from happening to Dad _or_ to me!"

Dean flinched, pain flashing through his eyes like quicksilver. Sam's lips curled against his teeth as he heard his own voice mocking him, twisting his stomach with the same sour taste from earlier.

_"I can see it in your eyes, Dean. You're worthless. You couldn't save your dad and deep down, you know that you can't save your brother. They'd have been better off without you."_

The words beat against Sam's memory and for a moment, he saw Dean's bloody face twisted in sorrow and pain, body crumpled below him as he pressed his hand into the tender flesh of his brother's wounded shoulder, hate seething hot and bright inside of him. Sam swallowed, blinking, and the image was gone.

"It's not gonna happen again," Dean growled, turning away.

Sam grabbed his arm, stopping his escape. "How do you know that?"

Dean glared at him a moment, then dug his hand into his pocket, pulling out the small charm Bobby had given them. "Because of these!"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Seriously?"

Dean jerked his arm free and stepped back. "Bobby said they'd work."

Sam pulled his charm out. "You think this is going to keep us safe? _This_?"

"Why the hell not?"

"It's a charm, Dean. A hope. You're hanging our lives on… on a _possibility_."

Dean's face went still. Sam felt the air around him draw close. Dean was shadowed by the light spilling into the room from the opened door and in the doorway Sam saw Lobo gain his feet, dropping his muzzle.

"Who's your brother, Sam?" Dean asked softly, reminding Sam of the old game played in their youth. The game that had always steadied Sam. That drew him through the dark.

"You are, Dean," Sam echoed Dean's cadence in an automatic response.

"You're damn right," Dean nodded. "Long as you remember that… _nothing's_ just a possibility."

The shrill whistle of a train drew Dean's eyes and Sam juggled the charm loosely in his grip. They both noticed the dog's _at attention_ stance and Dean stepped forward, his voice low, soothing, easy.

"Take it easy, Lobo. We're just talking."

The dog looked at Sam, then back at Dean, visibly relaxing, then turned, trotting down the steps and off into the cluster of trees. Dean watched him go, saying, "We need to go talk to Abe about this hunt. Some kinda… witch or something."

As if emotions were no longer churning him up, as if the conversation they had just had were about gunpowder and car engines and not about betrayal and pain, as if nothing were wrong, Dean turned away from Sam. He grabbed his knife from the top of the table and tucked it and its sheath into the back of his waistband, stepping out of the small house and onto the porch.

"You comin'?" He called back to Sam.

Frustration slammed into Sam, causing him to turn quickly from the open door and face his bed. Life had been an unending series of accidents—both good and bad—since their father had died, and Sam was quickly tiring of trying to keep one step ahead of fate. With clenched teeth, he threw Bobby's charm against the wall, listening as it bounced free, hitting the floor and rolling beneath the bed.

"Sam!"

"I'm comin'," he grumbled.

"Well, so's Christmas," Dean snapped. "Get a move on."

Sam shook his head helplessly, retrieving his long-sleeved shirt and following his brother out, locking the door behind him.

www

"Breakfast was over an hour ago." Maggie's greeting was quick and to the point.

"Already handled, Mags," Dean grinned at her.

Her instant frown had him drawing back protectively.

"What?" he asked, wary of the spark in her eyes.

"It's just that no one's called me that…in awhile."

"Oh," Dean exchanged a cautious glance with Sam who shrugged, his lips tilting down in a _beats the hell outta me_ look.

The door to the kitchen swung open and Yeats stepped in to the bar, nodding at them.

"Boys."

Dean had the impression that Yeats growled everything. They returned the nod and Dean swung a leg over one of the bar stools, curling his back in a cat-stretch and resting his forearms on the surface in front of him. His bruised face still ached from the beating it had received yesterday, but his shoulder felt better than it had in days. Maggie's wound treatment far surpassed Jo's, as far as Dean was concerned.

"Either of you seen Abe this morning?"

"He'll be around," Yeats answered, running quick eyes over the interior of the room. "I'm gonna walk the perimeter." He glanced at Maggie, who nodded.

Dean met Sam's expression of surprise. When the front door banged shut behind Yeats, Dean turned to Maggie. "What's his story, Maggie?"

"Yeats?"

"Yeah," Dean nodded as Maggie poured them each a mug of coffee, her motions looking as though the offer was more to have something to do with her hands than to be hospitable.

"He was a Marine. Overseas somewhere."

"How'd he come to know about hunters?" Sam asked, sipping the black coffee with a grimace.

Maggie lifted a shoulder. "How do any of us come to know? There's some bad shit in this world. It touches you and…you're never quite the same."

Dean looked down at the marks in the worn surface of the wood beneath him. Names, initials, sigils, signs. All had been polished down by hands, cleaning, and time.

"You two pretty close to Bobby?" Maggie asked suddenly, drawing Dean's eyes.

He heard the front door open, but ignored it.

"We've known him pretty much all our lives," he said, looking into the middle distance, remembering. "He used to be Uncle Bobby."

"Until we stopped being cute," Sam grinned.

Dean pointed at him. "Right there, brother."

"You saw him recently?" Maggie hedged.

Dean nodded. "Coupla days ago. Ran into some… some trouble," he looked at Sam, who looked down. "Bobby helped us out. Gave us directions to your place to hide out for awhile."

"From who?"

Abe's voice was a sudden interjection beside him, and Dean jerked right, surprised that the Ojibwa had been able to join them so silently.

"From the cops?" Abe continued.

Dean frowned. "Why do you ask?"

Abe pulled out a piece of paper from a worn manila folder and handed it to Dean. Taking it from him, Dean ran his eyes over the print, then showed it to Sam. "Pretty good likeness this time at least."

Sam just shook his head. "Well, we knew we were screwed…"

Dean took a breath. "That wanted poster isn't what you think," he said to Abe.

Abe slid onto the stool next to Dean. "Really? Because I think that the cops are basically misinterpreting your saving people from the random evils that haunt them as you being murderers and thieves."

Dean blinked. "Okay, so maybe it is what you think."

"We are… flying under the radar," Sam interjected. "But that's not why Bobby sent us here."

"Sam…" Dean warned.

"What?" Sam snapped. "They may as well know, Dean."

"Know what?" Maggie asked, sipping her coffee.

"Sam, we should talk about this—"

"Oh, _now_ you want to talk? What happened to _let it go_?"

"That's not… you're twisting my words around."

"Boys," Abe broke in. "What's going on?"

There was a pregnant pause as Dean stared at Sam and Sam stared back.

"Sam was possessed."

"I killed a hunter."

They spoke in unison, as if drawing on each other in an old west shoot-out.

"The _demon_ killed a hunter."

"I also shot Dean."

Jaw muscles flexed. Eyes steeled. Hands clenched at sides.

"Hunters might be looking for him."

Dean won the draw, allowing himself a momentary cocky grin, then slowly became aware once more of the other two in the room staring at them with a mixture of confusion and horror.

"So…" Abe breathed after the dust settled from the show-down. "Let me see if I've got this straight." He looked at Maggie, who nodded solemnly back at him. "A demon possessed Sam. Made him kill a hunter and shoot Dean, because…I don't get the because."

"Well," Maggie lifted a shoulder. "Demon killing a hunter I get. Use Sam—someone they might know—to get it inside a circle of trust, then take out the people that are dedicated to taking _it_ out."

Abe nodded. "But… why shoot Dean?"

Maggie frowned, looking back at Dean and Sam. "Yeah…I mean, other than he's a hunter…"

"That's…" Sam looked away. "Complicated."

Abe sighed. "Well," he started, reaching for the coffee pot. "It's too bad your dad couldn't be here to help keep watch for the hunters."

Dean felt his body close up—his heart stuttered, his lungs curled up inside of his chest, his blood turned to jelly. He heard Sam suck in his breath as he dropped heavily onto the stool on the other side of Dean.

"He just had this air of strength around him when I spoke with him—" Abe turned to look at the boys, and stopped when he saw their faces. "What?"

"You… you spoke with him?" Sam asked, his voice strangled.

"Yeah, I, uh," Dean cleared his throat. _Breathe, dammit._ "I forgot to tell you that last night."

"When?" Sam pushed. "When did you see him?"

"Right after we left the reservation," Dean said softly. "Over six months ago, Sam."

Sam sagged a bit on his stool, staring at Dean with a child's eyes devoid of hope.

"What is it, boys?" Maggie asked, her voice cautious, her brows pulled close.

Dean licked his lips. He hadn't had to say it to Ellen. She'd guessed. He hadn't had to say it to Bobby. He'd been near. He'd yelled it at Sam in a desperate attempt to make his brother hurt as badly as he was hurting. Saying it out loud made it more real than watching the fire consume his father's body.

"Abe, Dad's, uh…" His stomach knotted. His throat closed. _Breathe. Just breathe. _"Dad's dead."

The room grew cold around him. Dean felt Sam's knee against his hip tremble as a shudder of memory shot through his brother. He felt Abe reach for air, search for words.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Maggie offered into the silence.

"How?" Abe whispered.

"Demon." Sam answered, giving Dean a break.

Abe was quiet for a moment, then, "A demon killed your mom."

"Yeah," Dean said, surprised he remembered that.

"Same one?" Abe asked. Dark eyes seemed to pull Dean near, offering him a safe place to fall.

"We think so, yeah," Dean nodded.

"There's more, though," Abe guessed. "There's something else." His eyes traveled from Dean to Sam, resting for a moment, absorbing, reflecting, then returned to Dean and demanded answers.

Maggie straightened. "Maybe I should put on some more coffee."

"It's… it's a lot," Sam said.

"You're here to heal," Abe said. "To heal in safety. Not to hide."

_If we tell you… _Dean looked at Maggie. _Don't make us go… We've got nowhere else._

Maggie's quick, green eyes narrowed and she leaned carefully back against the display of whiskey bottles, crossing her arms and hiding the twisted Celtic tattoo on the inside of her arm.

"Dean," she said in a smoky voice. "Something you should know. I've lived a good life. I have seen war and peace and famine and prosperity. I've lain next to men I'd give my life for and have had men give their lives for me."

Her eyes were steady on his, her cadence an assertion of belief. "I've earned my scars and I'm proud that time has left its mark on my body. I believe there are things in the world at work around me that I can't and will never see. And I've seen both evil and justice. Nothing you could say in this moment will change that, and nothing will make me tell you to leave until you're ready."

Her declaration complete, Maggie uncrossed her arms, approached the inside of the bar, and pressed a warm hand on Dean's wrist.

"Besides," she grinned. "You're both kinda easy on the eyes."

Dean huffed out a quick, surprised laugh, relaxing slightly. He glanced over at Sam, asking silently if he was ready. Sam nodded, his face tight.

"Before Dad died," Dean said softly, still looking at Sam. "He told me something about Sam." Sam blinked back at him, not looking away. The trust in his brother's blue-green eyes gave Dean the balance he needed to continue. "He told me that… that I had to save him. And if I couldn't… I'd have to kill him."

"Save him from what?" Abe asked.

"He didn't say."

"There's more," Sam said, still staring at Dean. "We… we'd been through hell."

"That's putting it mildly," Dean said, finally breaking their visual connection and looking down at the bar. He knew what Sam was going to reveal. Living through it had been hard enough. Listening to it… having Abe know… it made him dizzy.

"The demon had… it possessed Dad," Sam continued. "It, uh… well, Dean was hurt pretty bad. We were on our way to the hospital—"

"Sam got the demon outta Dad—"

"—right, I shot him—Dad—in the leg and dispelled the demon. Anyway, we were hit by a semi and Dean…" Sam cleared his throat and Dean felt his muscles clench throughout his body. "Dean was… he nearly died. We learned some time later that…"

"Your dad saved him," Abe filled in softly, making the connection before Sam had to say the words. "Made a… a trade of some kind."

Dean nodded silently. The room was quiet as four people breathed around the truth and through the pain of that statement.

"Your father did what he had to do to save his son. He is a hero," Abe finally declared.

Dean brought his head up, gratitude filling his heart and releasing the tension in his muscles in a rush. His mouth relaxed, almost able to smile.

"You would do no less," Abe said, his eyes landing on Dean, then rising to rest on Sam. "Either of you. I saw that in the woods those many months ago. To save each other, you would sacrifice yourselves."

"Yeah, well," Sam said, pushing away from the bar. "Let's just hope it doesn't come to that." He started to wander aimlessly toward the pool table.

Dean felt the weight of Sam's words drift across his back and rest at the base of his neck. His brother's guilt was burrowing itself deep into his heart and it angered Dean that he couldn't find the right words, the right request, the right command to make Sam release it.

"So, Abe," Dean spoke up, desperate to climb away from the topic of Dad and death and sacrifice. "I see you picked up a few non-weapon-related hunting skills." He gestured toward the wanted poster Sam had left lying on the bar.

Abe nodded and Maggie moved away, grabbing up a bar towel and wiping down a set of pint glasses stacked at the end of the bar from the night before.

"Turns out the Internet is a fantastic place," Abe said with a craggy grin. "It's how I was able to figure out where to go next after the hunter died at the _Roadhouse_."

"Wait, what?" Sam called.

Dean waved a hand at him. "Tell you later. Okay, Abe, so you got a witch, you got belladonna poisoning…"

"Well, that's what it looks like, but what I can't figure out is how the victims are connected—and without that connection I don't know how to find the next one."

"How do you know there's gonna be a next one?" Maggie asked.

"'Cause he hasn't stopped the witch," Dean and Sam muttered together.

"So, how'd you end up here?" Sam asked, roving around the outer edge of the pool room, eyes on the floor as he thought.

"The last victim grew up here."

"So?" Maggie asked.

Abe shrugged. "It was a shot in the dark, really, but…"

"It felt right," Dean guessed.

"Yeah."

"Have you checked to see if there's anywhere in Plummer that grows or sells belladonna?" Sam asked.

"No, but I have found some antidote this time."

"Antidote?"

"Pilocarpine. If you catch the affects of the Devil's Herb soon enough, you can reverse it with pilocarpine. It will make you sweat and often times cry, but you will live."

"I think Dean would rather die from belladonna poisoning than cry," Sam snarked from the other room.

"Bite me," Dean tossed back.

"You wish." Sam's voice faded as he bent to retrieve something off the floor of the bar. "Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah." Dean stood, recognizing the tone in Sam's voice as more of a _c'mere a sec_ then an _I've been thinking_. He crossed behind Abe, moving toward the pool table.

"That guy, the hustler, what was his name?"

"Sal something."

"Right, him," Sam stood up. "He wore a ring, right?"

Dean gestured casually to the butterfly bandages flanking his bruised eye. "Nice big ring."

"Kinda like this one?"

Sam held up a class ring, yellow stone glistening.

"Yeah," Dean tilted his head, reaching out his hand for the ring. "But bigger, and his stone was red."

"You sure?"

"Absolutely. Got up close and personal with it."

"Where did you find that?" Abe asked.

Sam looked up at him and Dean pivoted at the concern he heard in Abe's voice.

"Over here—by the corner."

"What is it?" Dean asked.

"Okay, tell me if this means something to you two," Abe stood, holding his folder open and approached them, his eyes on something inside. "The hunter that died at the _Roadhouse_ doesn't fit this—he doesn't fit anything, really—but…with the last victim, Liam Grayson, there was a tassel with the number 92 on it found near the body."

"A tassel?" Dean's brow drew lines of confusion across his face.

"Like from a graduation cap?" Sam asked.

"Yes, exactly."

Dean turned the yellow-stoned ring around in his hand. "RLC. 1992," he read. "RLC?"

"Red Lake County Central," Maggie interjected. "Local high school."

"You said there were how many other victims?"

"Not counting the hunter, two more."

"Anything found near the other bodies?" Sam asked.

"I don't know," Abe confessed. "I never really saw the relevance until now."

"Might be something to connect your victims," Dean pointed out. "Maybe we should—"

The crack of sound from the jukebox made them all jump with surprise.

"_Baby did a bad, bad thing…"_ Chris Isaak's sultry voice crooned out at them suddenly.

"What the hell?" Dean looked over at Sam, a fierce expression of angry confusion pulling his face together.

"Don't look at me!" Sam supplied helpfully.

Squelch like static from a CB radio filled the room, making the foursome wince and cover their ears.

"_…so much hate for the ones we love… tell me we both matter, don't we…"_

The words echoed through the room. Shoulders hunched, Dean stalked purposely over to the jukebox, gripping the edge and shoved it away from the wall as the static bounced around the room once more.

"…_you hear me? Should I turn this up for you…"_

"Hell, no!" Dean yelled over the angry voice inside the music. Locating the power cord, he tried to pull it from the wall. Sparks shot out, attacking his hand and making him jump back with a cry of surprise.

"Dean!"

"I'm okay," he called back to Sam over the static. "Stay back."

"_I'm abandoned and alone, no easy road… leaves a man a tormented soul…"_

"Shit!" Dean kicked at the power cord with the flat of his rubber-soled boot. "Where's my gun, Sam?"

"Back at the house!"

"Figures," Dean grumbled, kicking until the cord came free from the wall. The silence that followed was brief.

Static crashed into them, louder than before, knocking Dean away from the machine as he bent over and covered his ears. He felt his bones shake from the sound. Then, impossibly loud, Blue Oyster Cult screamed out a departing line.

_"I'm living for givin' the devil his due…"_

Silence surrounded them once more like a vacuum. Cautiously straightening, Dean lowered his hands slowly, looking across the room to Sam, Abe, and Maggie. They blinked at each other, speechless, until the front door banged open, causing all four to shout with surprise.

"What the hell is going _on_ in here?" Yeats bellowed. "I been trying to get this damn door open for five minutes now!"

"The, uh," Abe pointed across the room to the jukebox. "Music…maker…thing was, well it was…"

"Possessed, Abe." Sam filled in. "It was possessed."

"Dude," Dean shook his head. "Something tells me you're not dealing with a normal witch."

"There's such a thing as a normal witch?" Abe asked, his owlish eyes on Dean.

"Good point," Dean nodded. "Think we should… I don't know… burn this thing?" Dean frowned at the jukebox.

"Did you listen to the songs?" Sam asked.

Dean simply looked back at him.

"I think something is communicating with us."

"Through the jukebox?" Dean drew his head back.

"Why not?"

"I don't know, Sam, just seems a little too…Steven Spielberg, y'know?"

"Baby did a bad, bad thing? Giving the devil his due?"

"A witch with an eclectic taste in music?" Dean offered with a shrug.

"I don't think we're dealing with a witch," Sam shook his head, looking at Abe. "I think it's a spirit or something."

"The hunter said—" Abe started

"So, he was wrong." Sam snapped, cutting him off.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean approached him. "Take it easy! You don't know for sure it's a spirit."

"He doesn't know for sure it's a witch!" Sam argued.

"We just need to look into it more, is all." Dean rested a hand on Sam's arm, surprised to feel the tremble there. "We'll look into it, okay?"

Sam searched Dean's face a moment, his eyes a war of anger, memories, and sorrow. "Yeah, okay."

"You boys hungry?" Maggie spoke up after a moment. "I don't know about you, but I've never been able to battle spirits on an empty stomach."

Dean dropped his hand from Sam's arm, looking over at her with a soft smile. "Sure, Mags, that would be great."

This time she smiled back at the nickname, turning and stepping past the whiskey display and head toward the kitchen. When the first bottle exploded, the trio on the other side of the bar looked up in confusion.

"What was—" Dean started.

"Maggie, get down!" Yeats growled, moving forward like mercury to pull her out of the way as the entire display shattered, scattering whiskey and glass bullets across the inside of the bar.

Abe, Sam, and Dean dropped at Yeats' warning, crouching low and covering the backs of their heads with their arms.

"Dean." Sam reached for his brother, tilting him close as glass rained down. "What the hell, man?"

"Well," Dean said, throwing a wild look at his brother. "I'm starting to think our safe house isn't so safe."

When quiet once again ruled the atmosphere, five heads appeared cautiously over the edge of the bar.

"Everybody okay?" Dean called, looking around.

"I think so," Maggie's normally commanding voice trembled.

"Abe? Yeats?" Dean demanded a role call.

"Fine," Yeats barked. "You want to explain this?"

"It's my fault." Abe's voice also shook. Dean looked over at him. The sturdy man had taken in a lot in the last couple of hours. "I didn't look into this far enough… figure enough out."

Dean opened his mouth to reassure Abe, but heard Sam instead.

"You couldn't have known, man." Sam's voice was soft, easy, carefully soothing. "Anyone would have drawn the same conclusion."

Dean took a breath, rubbing his face, his bruises deciding that now would be a good time to stand up and be counted. He closed his eyes, thinking. "Okay, well now we've gotta figure out what kind of spirit we're dealing with. _And_ if the witch is controlling it—"

"Dean."

"—or if there even _is_ a witch. Maybe it's _just_ a spirit and the dead hunter back at the _Roadhouse_ was…I don't know…hallucinating—"

"_Dean_."

"What, Sam?" Dean opened his eyes and looking at his brother.

Sam pointed wordlessly to the mess of glass and mirror and whiskey on the other side of the room. Dean followed his gesture and blinked in shock.

The spilled whiskey was running in smooth tracks from where it had landed on the bar, the floor and splattered across the wall to gather into puddles. As they watched, the temperature in the room dropped until their harsh exhales of breath could be seen as small clouds of condensed air billowing from their lips.

Dean felt Sam's hand clamp his arm.

"Dean…" Sam breathed, mouth agape, eyes wide, his hand rising to point.

Dean stiffened as his eyes followed Sam's finger. "Holy shit…"

Maggie gasped.

Before their astonished eyes, the puddles of whiskey began to slither over the floor, converging, until the pool of liquor hit the wall where it began to flow upward, joining the rivulets of liquid already splashed across there.

"It's… it's climbing." Sam murmured.

Dean felt the coldness of the room seep into his bones, Sam's hand on his arm trembling slightly with a shiver.

The whiskey drops that had been running down the wall reversed direction, joined by the liquid crawling up from the floor. An odd, shrill cry, soft at first, then growing in strength and intensity emanated from the liquid as it rolled up the walls, gathering to the side of the large mirror.

Eyes pinned to the anomaly, Yeats straight-armed Maggie behind him, backing both away from the wall slowly, joining the trio on the other side of the bar. Dean glanced furtively at Abe, Maggie, and Yeats, edging away from them and toward Sam, his instinct to place himself between the surreal image before them and his brother.

"What… what _is_ that?" Abe suddenly breathed.

Dean looked back at the wall. He narrowed his focus, tilting his head, trying to see what the gathering whiskey was forming, searching for a familiar pattern.

"Oh, my God," Sam breathed. "They're eyes."

"What?" Dean looked at Sam, incredulous, his head swiveling back to the image on the wall. Then he saw it. Two almond-shaped, opaque eyes stared back at him through the amber liquid on the wall. "Holy…shit..." he said again, his skin crawling.

The shrill cry that seemed to be coming from the liquid itself suddenly blossomed into an eerie version of a child's laughter, bouncing through the room and disappearing. When the sound vanished, the whiskey eyes fell, showering the room and splashing the onlookers with a fine spray of amber.

Standing silent, Dean pulled in a careful breath, tasting an intoxicating mixture of Jack Daniels and Jim Beam on the edges of his lips.

"Fuck me," Yeats whispered.

"So," Maggie said, her exhale stuttering on its escape from her lungs. "I'm thinking the _Hideout_ may be closed this evening. What do you say, Yeats?"

"Sounds like a plan." The grizzled bouncer nodded once.

"That ever happened to you two before?" Abe asked, calculating eyes drifting from Dean to Sam and back.

"No," they answered in unison, still staring at the wall.

"You have any idea what it means?" Abe continued.

"No," they replied together, not moving.

As if they were waiting for the next surreal moment, everyone stood still, simply breathing. Abe finally broke the silence.

"All right then," Abe nodded. "Maggie, I'm gonna need your computer again."

"Have at it," she replied, waving her hand in the air.

"You have a computer?" Sam asked, blinking free of his stupor.

"Back at the house," Maggie nodded.

"House?" Dean's brows pulled together. "You don't…live here?"

Maggie lifted a dark eyebrow, her storied face impassive. "This is a _bar_, son."

"Yeah, I know, but," Dean tried, giving in and waving a hand at her. "Aw, forget it."

"Can I come with you, Abe?" Sam asked.

"Of course," Abe nodded. "Need all the help I can get."

"I'll help you clean this up," Dean looked at Yeats who nodded his thanks.

"Do we know this is…over?" Maggie asked hesitantly.

"No," Dean shook his head. "But the sooner we figure out who belongs to those creepy-ass eyes, the sooner we can stop it from happening again."

"'Nuff said," Maggie tapped the air. "I'll get the mop."

"Dean," Sam jerked his head to the side. Dean stepped over to his brother, out of earshot. "It's not a witch." Sam's voice was decisive.

"You gimme what it is instead, and we'll both believe that," Dean replied.

"I will," Sam said, shoving his hands into his pockets. He opened his mouth slightly, words dancing on the edge of his tongue.

Dean dropped his chin, lifting his brows, waiting.

"You gonna be okay here?" Sam finally asked, his eyes darting from the dead jukebox to the dripping wall.

"Guess we'll find out," Dean shrugged, knowing there had been more lingering in that brief quiet, but not pressing the issue.

"Dean," Sam said, his eyes weighted with a burden Dean wanted to take from him.

"I'll be fine, Sam," Dean said on a sigh. "Soon as we figure out what the hell, we'll _all_ be fine."

www

"Is there anything we can use against a spirit?" Maggie asked as she swept broken glass into a bucket.

"Salt," Dean shrugged. "But something tells me we're not dealing with a spirit. Not your garden-variety spirit, anyway."

"Which is…" Maggie glanced at him from the corner of her eyes as he held the bucket steady.

"Well, you know," Dean said, looking up at her through his lashes. "Ghost of a murdered person, or a hidden body. Somebody not willing to let go. You find the body, salt and burn the bones, easy as that."

"Is that before or after they beat the shit out of you for trying to kill them?"

"Usually after," Dean straightened. "But… you're right. We probably should have some kind of weapon."

The unmistakable sound of a round sliding neatly into a chamber of a gun brought his head around. Yeats stood in the kitchen doorway, holding Maggie's shotgun.

"You got regular shells in that thing?" Dean asked.

"Regular?"

Dean nodded. "Buckshot. Pellets. Lead."

"Yeah," Yeats tilted his chin, waiting for the punch line.

"Won't do any good if this is a spirit."

"And if it's a witch?"

"Shoot first, ask questions later," Dean replied, earning a small grin from the taciturn man in return. "Maggie, I'm gonna head back to the safe house and grab a few salt rounds."

"Don't be long." She frowned. "I don't like the idea of anyone being alone too long until this is handled."

"Okay, _Mom_." Dean grinned at her.

She narrowed her eyes at him, curling all but one finger into her palm and pulling a laugh from his chest as he left the room.

The cloud-covered, mid-day sun tossed an electric light around the clearing. Strands reflected off the nearby railroad tracks and glinted into Dean's eyes as he stepped outside. He tossed up a hand, shielding himself from the light, and glanced toward the woods for signs of Lobo. Other than the crickets and the birds calling to each other, the surrounding area was quiet. There wasn't even the repetitive click of train rails to disturb the eerie peace.

Dean jogged across the empty lot, curving around the end of the _Hideout _and headed toward the small brick house. In the light of day, the safe house looked even more like an afterthought. The wind through the tops of the trees at the back of the property teased him with thoughts of rushing water, and for a moment he thought he heard the quick, padded footsteps of their new friend.

He'd reached the porch before he remembered that Sam had taken the key that morning. Turning the doorknob with a gesture of impatience, Dean was surprised when the door swung open. His senses sending out instant cautionary feelers, the hairs on his neck raising, Dean took a step through the doorway, reaching behind him for his knife and wishing fervently for his gun.

"Sam?"

He took another step inside.

"Sammy?"

"Wrong," said a voice from the dark.

Hands grabbed his neck, his wrists, forcing him forward, pushing him down, knocking the knife from his grasp. Dean had a heartbeat of time to curse his lack of awareness, the ease at which he was taken off guard. He twisted, instinctively working to protect his shoulder, and saw the quick flash of the butt of his pearl-handled .45 before it crashed across his temple, effectively silencing the world and sending him tumbling into the black.

www

"So, our hunter is still nameless," Sam sighed, rubbing the back of his neck in a tired gestured he'd picked up from Dean. "But other than him, we have Liam Grayson, Sean Harper, and Lewis Wells, all from the class of '92, all from Red Lake Central."

"Yep," Abe nodded, looking over his shoulder at the younger hunter. Sam's eyes were shadowed, fingers of purple hanging beneath the blue-green irises. Abe tried to look closer, only to be thwarted as Sam suddenly stood and began pacing.

"This usually helps Dean think," Sam commented. "He counts a lot. Steps, beats, time… he doesn't even realize he's doing it."

"What helps you think, Sam?" Abe asked.

Sam lifted a shoulder. "Quiet, I guess. I don't know. I feel like I'm always thinking. Except…"

Abe frowned as Sam paused. He turned on his chair in Maggie's small office, leaning closer. "Except what?"

Sam shifted his eyes to Abe. "I was…gone for over a week. Did things that are only coming back to me now. And…well," Sam pulled his lips in, looking away. "It was really the only time in my life I can remember…_not_ thinking."

Abe simply nodded, unsure how to offer reassurance, unsure if that was what Sam needed. As he watched, Sam shook his head, memories shaking free and tumbling from his eyes like cobwebs knocked from ceiling corners.

"So, what connects these guys besides High School?" Sam hedged, trying to deflect Abe's attention.

"Sam," Abe said, keeping his voice low, soothing. Sam kept pacing, his spasming fingers and restless eyes reminded Abe of a skittish colt, or a wild animal. Ready to run if the wrong thing was said, ready to lash out if he couldn't run. "What's going on with you two?"

Sam shrugged. "Already told you."

"You told me that your father made Dean promise the impossible before he gave his life to save his son. You told me you all had been through hell. You told me you were made to commit unspeakable acts."

Sam looked out of Maggie's office window. "Not much else to tell." His eyes blinked rapidly and Abe saw him reach out for the edge of the desk.

"Are you feeling okay?"

"Just…just tired, I guess."

"When's the last time you ate?" Abe stood from the computer, crossing the room to grasp Sam's upper arm. The muscles rippled under his grasp, leaning in and pulling away at the same time.

"Uh…yesterday sometime."

"Come with me." Abe tightened his fingers, turning Sam from the room and marching him toward Maggie's kitchen. Once they entered the small, sunny space, Abe pushed Sam into a chair, opened the fridge and grabbed a can of Coke, popping it open and set it in front of him.

"Drink. I'll find you some lunch."

"What about Dean?" Sam asked, gulping the sugary beverage.

"Maggie will take care of him," Abe said, opening cabinets and pulling out a pot and a large can of beef stew. "I never had to cook for myself until I left the reservation."

"What, you live with your mom or something?"

Abe spared him a glance. "Funny."

"Were you married?" Sam asked, resting his head on his fist, his elbow propped on the table.

"Nope," Abe opened the stew, pouring it into the pot and lighting the fire on the burner. "Never took the time to get to know a woman long enough for that. I hunted—game, you know—for the people and in turn, they fed me."

"You miss it?"

"Hunting?"

"Home," Sam clarified, burrowing his fingers deeper into his hair as he held his head erect.

"Sometimes," Abe nodded, watching the stew begin to boil along the sides of the pot. He thought of his home. Of his people. Of what he'd left behind to fight a battle he knew he had to win. "But sometimes a path is laid out for you, and you have no choice except to follow. You simply walk, trusting that each step forward will take you to your destiny…even as it carries you away from your heart."

Abe swallowed as the words drifted from him, carried on a tide of sincerity that few would hear. Sam lifted his head, wrapping both hands around his can of Coke, his eyes on the silver rim. Abe watched as shadows gathered in the haze of afternoon light that lit Sam from behind. This boy had seen his share of pain. Abe wondered how he'd borne up under the weight of it for so long.

"Dean always cooked for us," Sam said, his voice shadowed with memory. "You wouldn't know it looking at him, but he's a good cook."

_Dean…_ Abe nodded once. _The impact of the pain hits the guardian first, and what he's unable to absorb deflects onto Sam._ Abe had seen it first hand, had watched them in action, and it made him hurt for both more acutely.

"I believe it," Abe said, pouring the stew into a bowl and digging a large spoon out of a drawer next to the stove.

"Yeah?" Sam leaned back as the bowl was set in front of him.

"Sure," Abe said, crossing back to the stove and pouring some stew for himself. "When I met you two, I knew instantly that you were brothers. You were unconscious, but just by his words, his movements, his actions—I knew you were the most important thing in the world to Dean."

Sam ate silently and Abe waited.

"I made him promise me," Sam finally confessed.

"Promise you what?"

"Promise to kill me."

Abe gripped his spoon to keep from dropping it back into his bowl. At last the reason for Dean's devastation became clear.

"Why?"

Sam tried to shrug, but it seemed his shoulders were too heavy for such an act. "Because…because I was—I _am_—afraid of what I'm going to turn into. What he's supposed to save me from."

"How do you know you're going to turn into anything?"

Sam lifted tragic eyes. "Why would Dad have said that if I wasn't?"

Abe was suddenly, viciously reminded of a moment in the woods. A moment when Dean collapsed and Sam held him. A moment when Abe reached to help and was pushed back by a power he couldn't understand…

"_No, Sam," Dean's voice was calm, belying his trembling body. "Send someone back for me, but you get out."_

"_GodDAMMIT, Dean," Sam yelled, his teeth clenched, tears now coursing freely down his cheeks. Dean seemed undaunted by his angry outburst; he lay in Sam's arms, calmly looking at his brother, challenging him with his eyes to defy him, to dare tell him no._

"_Dad," Dean said, not looking away from Sam. "Promise me."_

_Sam's head whipped over to Abe. "Don't you make that promise," Sam growled. "You _don't_."_

"_Dad," Dean repeated. "Please. Please, you have to get him out," his eyes shifted down. "I'll be all right if I know…"_

"_Sam," Abe said in a low voice that only Sam could hear. "What would _he_ do?" He was somewhat afraid of this father of theirs, afraid that he would have slung Dean over his shoulder and pulled the travois at the same time. _

_Sam's eyes narrowed. _Low blow_. "He would leave him," Sam said… _so that's why we can't

_Abe felt his stomach turn to ice. He understood what Dean was saying—he would be all right if he knew his brother was taken care of. Abe knew then, knew that no matter how hard Sam fought it, if he took Dean to safety and left Sam behind, he would be killing them both. There was only one thing he could do. _

"_Sam, let go," he said, softly, attempting to reach out and grasp Dean's arms. _

_Sam faced him, hatred in his eyes. Abe gasped. He felt an energy ripple through the air. He reached out for Dean again and the energy increased. Abe felt as though something were pushing his hands back._

"_Don't touch him," Sam growled low. Abe shivered. _

"I don't know why he said it, Sam," Abe said softly, remembering how the power had ebbed when Sam gave in. When Sam released Dean.

"He wouldn't do it, though."

"Who, Dean?" Abe asked, trying to keep up with Sam's broken words.

"I killed a man—he watched it happen on tape. I threatened the life of one of our friends. I _shot_ him," Sam swallowed. "And he never gave up on me. Not once."

"He loves you," Abe said simply. "He'd rather die than harm you."

"That's what he said," Sam shrugged. "But…if Dad made him promise that for a reason—"

"Then Dean will do the right thing," Abe said with certainty. "But not before he's exhausted every effort trying to save you."

"It's not fair," Sam muttered, stirring his spoon in the dregs of his stew. "He shouldn't have to...I don't know…sacrifice everything."

Abe sighed. "Would you?"

Sam lifted his head. "What?"

"If the situation was reversed…if your father had made _you_ promise…could you have killed Dean?"

Sam blinked at him, his eyes wide, uncertain. Abe watched Sam's lips work around the form of words, watched his chest expand as he drew breath.

Abe leaned closer. "Sam," he said softly. "When I met your father, so many months ago, he was coming for you."

"He was?" Sam whispered.

"He was tired, dirty, looked like he'd just rolled down a hill with a pack of wolves, but he was there, asking about you, following the message you left for him."

"I wish I'd… I wish…"

Abe kept his voice soft, filling the void of Sam's silence. "He loved you both, but I saw who you each were to him. Dean is his warrior. You are his gift."

Sam's lips trembled.

"Neither is more or less important than the other; both need each other to survive." Abe held still as Sam pulled his lips against his teeth, nodding.

"I miss him," Sam said, his voice strained with the effort of restraining emotion. "And…I don't know what to do…how to… I mean…"

"You shot your brother."

Sam nodded.

"And he won't blame you, so you can't apologize and be released from your guilt."

Sam nodded again, shifting his eyes away. With a rough, careless hand, he swiped at his face, banishing the moisture gathering there that betrayed his heart.

The kitchen door opened and Maggie walked in.

"I see you made yourself at home," she nodded. "Good."

"Needed some fuel," Abe explained, straightening up and giving Sam a moment to compose himself.

"Where's Dean?" Maggie asked, suddenly frowning around the kitchen.

Sam cleared his throat, looking over at her, puzzled. "What do you mean? Isn't he with you?"

Maggie shook her head. "He left awhile ago to get some weapons. Didn't come back. I thought maybe he'd hiked up here to check on you."

Sam stood, worry lining his boyish face. "Where's Yeats?"

"Back at the _Hideout_."

"Abe," Sam stepped around the table, leaving his empty bowl behind. "I need a ride back to the bar."

"You think something's wrong?" Abe grabbed his coat, following Sam to the door.

"Dean wouldn't be gone longer than he planned without letting someone know," Sam grabbed the door of Abe's truck. "Not without a reason."

"I'll just wait here," Maggie called after them. "In case he comes by."

"Drop me off at the safe house," Sam instructed, "then go check on Yeats at the bar."

"What is it, Sam?" Abe frowned, shoving the truck into gear. The lines framing the young hunter's face drew arrows of tension in Abe's chest.

"I've got a bad feeling about this."

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Dust kicked up from the pick-up's wheels as Abe screamed into the lot after the short drive from Maggie's house. Sam jumped from the truck, heading to the safe house at a run. A quick glance told him the Impala was still where Dean had left it the night before. The front door was closed and he tried the handle, finding it also locked. Frowning, he dug the key from his jeans pocket and opened the door.

The room was unnaturally dark and it took him a moment to realize the curtains on either side of the far window had been pulled.

"Dean?"

The toe of his boot hit something and he looked down to see Dean's knife on the floor.

"What the—"

The door slammed behind him and something hit him, low at the waist, at the same time. With a surprised exhale of air, Sam stumbled backward, twisting around to grab at his assailant. His arms were pinned from behind and before he could throw a punch, he was shoved to the floor, held fast by his arms and felt someone sit on his flailing legs.

"Down, boy," came a voice from the darkness. It was oddly familiar—slightly high-pitched and nervous. "You better behave if you want us to keep your brother in one piece."

The overhead light flicked on and Sam blinked in the brilliance. Struggling against the hold, he saw Jones was sitting on his legs, snarling at him, a large white bandage covering one side of his head. Across the room, he saw Sal leaning against the wall near the light switch, arms crossed over his chest, lip curled in disgust.

"You can let go, Lloyd," Sam grunted, realizing who held his arms. "I won't mess up your buddies too bad."

Jones backhanded him, sending his head snapping to the side. Blinking away the stars, Sam suddenly saw Dean.

His brother was sitting on a kitchen chair, its back to the covered window, his hands tied in front of him, feet tied to the legs of the chair, upper body anchored to the back of the chair with several strands of rope. His head was bent, chin touching his chest, his body limp against the binding.

"Dean?"

"I think Lloyd hit him harder than we'd intended," Sal said, pushing away from the wall. "Thought he'd be awake by now."

He crossed the room and ran a finger down the side of Dean's lax face, tucking it under his chin and tipping his head back. Sam caught a glimpse of Dean's bruised face, blood running from his forehead through his eyebrow and branching down his cheek from his closed lashes. Sal clicked his tongue against his teeth, then let Dean's head fall forward again.

"Don't touch him, you son of a bitch!" Sam growled, surging against the hands holding him down.

Sal _tsked_ at him. "Such language. Not really smart for someone in your position."

Sam growled and struggled again, trying to unseat Jones from his legs, earning another slap for the effort.

"Get him up, boys," Sal commanded, grabbing a kitchen chair and plunking it down next to Dean.

Sam grunted with effort as he was hauled unceremoniously to his feet. "You know, there's gonna be people coming."

"That so?" Sal asked, sounding thoroughly unconcerned.

"Just let us go now, and I'll tell them to go easy on you," Sam tried as Lloyd shoved him, hard, into the chair and Jones looped a rope around his chest. He pulled his lips tight against a curse as his hands were bound roughly behind him, the course braiding of a rope chafing his wrists as the knots were tied tight.

"Don't see that happening," Sal said, crouching in front of him. "But nice try."

"What do you want, then?"

"My money."

Sam pulled his head back. "That's it?"

"There should be something else?"

Sam looked up as Lloyd joined Sal, and Jones began to circle Dean like a hungry animal sizing up its prey. "No," he shook his head. "Take the money. Leave him alone."

"Warms the heart, don't it Jonesy? All this protective brotherly love?"

"Sure does," Jones agreed.

Sal flexed his fingers, catching Sam's eye. He heard the beefy joints pop and peered at Sal's red-stoned class ring.

"You graduate in '92?" Sam asked suddenly.

Sal paused, confused by this question from left field. "What?"

"I said," Sam spaced his words carefully. "Did you graduate in 1992?"

"Yeah, why?" Sal looked at Jones who frowned back.

"I think someone may be looking for you." Sam grinned menacingly, unable to help himself.

"Sam!" Abe's voice shot a cold current of panic down Sam's spine.

"Abe! Stay back!" Sam called as Sal, Jones, and Lloyd jerked in unison toward the door. "Get Yeats!"

Sam heard Dean's low moan of awareness in the very second he saw Sal pull his brother's pearl-handled .45 from his own pocket and turn to join his buddies.

"Dean?" Sam whispered fiercely.

"Wha—" Dean's voice was groggy and his movements sluggish as he attempted to raise his head. "Aw, Jesus."

"You okay?" Sam winced in sympathy as he watched Dean fight to open his eyes, lift his head, climb his way to consciousness.

"My head s-still on?" Dean slurred.

"For now," Sam said, darting his eyes to the trio approaching the door, the Winchesters' guns raised to attack their would-be rescuers. "We gotta get out of here, man."

"Right, yeah, okay." Dean blinked his eyes wide, lifting his head and Sam clarity slowly returning to his green eyes. "Who hit me?"

"Sal, I think."

"That son of a bitch."

"Yeah," Sam nodded. "You got any play in your ropes?"

"Ropes?" Dean squinted his eyes.

Sam frowned at him. "C'mon, Dean, stay with me here."

"You boys made a mistake," Sal said, turning from his cover of the door to point Dean's gun at him. "Telling that Indian to come here. Now he's gonna get a pow-wow of his own."

Sam looked at Sal, his expression one of disbelief. "What does that even mean?"

"You just shut up," Sal barked, stepping forward and kicking Dean's knife with his boot. He bent over, picked up the Bowie, and grinned. "That's no little pig-sticker."

"Put that down before you hurt yourself, Sal," Sam commanded snidely, desperately working at the bindings on his wrists. He shot a glance over to Dean and was dismayed to see his brother's head hanging low once more. A flash of panic shot through him.

_Gotta get him out of here._

"Think we'll take a few other things in addition to the money you owe us," Sal leaned forward, waving the tip of Dean's knife just under Sam's eye. "Like this knife."

"Whatever, dude," Sam snapped. "Just quit breathing on me."

"Sal!" Jones barked. "He's coming back—and he's got that big fella with him."

Sneering at Sam, Sal tossed the knife at Dean. Sam gasped as the blade embedded itself in the wooden chair between Dean's legs.

"I'm gonna enjoy taking you apart," Sal sneered.

Sam just stared at him, his jaw tensing. Sal stepped away, heading back to the front door and peering up through the glass. Sam watched as their three captors' attention was held by whoever was approaching.

"Sam." Dean's soft voice was like a scream in Sam's mind.

He whipped his head around to stare in wonder at his brother. "You were faking?"

"Sorta," Dean confessed, rubbing the rope binding his hands against the blade between his legs. "Head hurts like a mother…"

"I'll bet it does." Sam split his attention between Dean and the trio at the door. "Hurry up."

"Trying not to slice my wrists open," Dean whispered. "There," he pulled his hands apart, twisting until he got the ropes around his chest loose, and then pushed them over his head, bending sideways until he was able to free his legs.

Dean tried to wrestle the knife free from the chair, but it was stuck tight. He stood carefully, eyes on the men at the door, and moved behind Sam. As he crouched to work on Sam's ropes, the floor beneath him creaked.

Sal whirled around.

"Hey!" He brought Dean's gun up.

Sam pulled in a breath and felt Dean move instinctively. He shoved Sam's chair to the side; Sam landed hard on his arm and cried out as Dean dove over him, avoiding the bullet that bit into the wall behind him.

"Sam! Dean!" Abe's frantic voice filtered in from the outside.

Sam craned his neck, trying to see where Sal was, but Dean was pulling at him, dragging him horizontally off of the chair, not bothering to untie his bound hands. Sam kicked his legs free from the chair, pushing against the floorboards to help his brother's backwards escape.

He caught sight of Sal and his cronies once again focused on the door, Sal's hand on the doorknob. Dean's hands were clumsy on Sam's shoulders, trying to pull him to his feet. Sam managed to get to his knees, stumbling forward, feeling Dean's arm slide around him gripping his shirt in what felt like an attempt to get Sam up as well as a search for balance.

Sam heard the front door swing open and glanced over his shoulder just as Sal fired two quick shots outside toward Abe and Yeats, the powerful .45 kicking back and tossing Sal's hand up, sending his shots wide.

"Sal!" Jones cried out, catching sight of Sam and Dean's attempted escape.

Sal turned, Dean's gun following his movement clutched in the hustler's meaty hand, and in that moment Sam saw his life ending just as Meg had wanted it to. Shot by his brother's gun.

"No," Dean uttered, wrapping an arm across Sam's chest and propelling them both toward the curtain-covered back window.

They crashed through the canvas-padded glass, falling the three feet from the window to the ground. Sam tried to pull in a breath, but Dean was already up on his feet, grabbing Sam by his bound arms and tugging at him.

"C'mon, Sam," Dean panted. "Get up. _Now!_"

Sam struggled to his feet and, driven by his brother's insistent hands, began running awkwardly alongside Dean through the woods behind the safe house. He didn't know how Dean was still moving, let alone able to propel them _both_ forward.

"Fuck!" Sam heard Sal's cry and hazarded a glance over his shoulder once more to catch sight of the man jumping through the broken window, Dean's gun raised, running after them.

Dean wouldn't let up, despite the fact that Sam knew his head had to be a relentless hammer of blood behind his eyes. If anything, he seemed to run faster when he realized Sal hadn't stopped his pursuit.

"Who is this guy, Forrest Gump?" Dean gasped as he tucked Sam behind a particularly wide tree, trying to untie the ropes holding Sam's hands behind his back. "Never seen anyone run so fast."

"Why are we running from him?" Sam asked angrily.

Just then a shot ricochet off the tree to their left and Dean pulled Sam around, hands still bound, pushing him ahead as they continued to run through the woods.

"'Cause he's got our guns, that's why!" Dean managed.

"SAL!"

The brother's shared a quick, thankful glance as they heard Abe's bellow and the unmistakable sound of a rifle shot echoed through the woods.

"Sal, stop, or next time I won't miss!"

No answering comment graced their ears. Sam worked at the ropes Dean had managed to loosen as he ran, finally able to work one hand free. The use of his arms gave him speed and he pushed himself to the next cluster of large trees, grabbing Dean as he ducked into momentary safety and pulling him close.

The evening pressed close around them, the leafy canopy blocking the radiance of the dying sun, filtering color through to the ground. Dean bent over, hands on knees, drawing in large gulps of breath.

"Think…" he tried, coughing into the crook of his arm, then standing up to peer around Sam into the gloom. "Think he gave up?"

Sam simply shook his head, licking his lips, his throat winded.

"I know you're close," Sal's voice taunted, disorienting in the copse of trees. "I can smell you."

Dean wrinkled his nose, sniffing at the shoulder of his T-shirt, then leaned close and sniffed Sam's chest. "You shower today?"

Surprised, amused, bewildered, Sam looked down at his brother. "Yeah. You?"

"Yeah," Dean whispered. "Must not be us he's smelling."

"You're crazy," Sam shook his head.

Dean smacked Sam's arm with the back of his hand. "C'mon, Sam," he said, turning on silent feet to head further into the woods and away from Sal. "He can kill us, but he can't eat us. That's against the law."

Shaking his head, Sam took off after Dean, following him through the waning light, following him into the unknown, realizing he'd follow him anywhere. After a moment of running in silence, Dean paused, turning to face Sam, barely more than three feet away.

"Think we lost him?" Dean panted.

"Sam! Get dow—"

The shot interrupted Abe's warning, but the call was enough for Sam to dive to the side. He looked up wildly to see that Dean had jerked in the opposite direction, landing on his knees, and was looking back at him, seemingly unharmed. Sam watched relief cross his brother's features in the fading light and started to grin in return. Dean pushed himself to his feet, his left arm once again tucked close, blood from his head meeting the corner of his mouth.

"ARRGGGHHH!!!"

Sal's yell of frustration was accompanied by the _thunk_ of Dean's empty gun as it landed on the ground next to Sam's sprawled form. Dean seemed to fold inward as Sal slammed into his midsection, plowing them both backwards as Dean grappled for purchase, arms swinging, fists connecting, feet scrambling.

"Dean…" Sam breathed, scrambling to his feet, trying to assimilate what he was seeing.

Time seemed to stand still as Sal and Dean froze for the fraction of a second it took them to realize that the ground they had been fighting for was no longer beneath them. Dean's quick breath was overshadowed by Sal's scream of realization.

And then they were gone.

"Dean!" Sam hurried forward, unable to comprehend what had just happened.

"Sam, no!" Abe called out, and Sam registered the sound of the Ojibwa approaching him as the toes of his boots breeched the edge of the cliff, the sound of Sal's scream ending abruptly with the sound of a dual splash of water.

Sam felt himself tipping forward, intent on following Dean, willing to fall into the black abyss below him. The hand that gripped his arm and pulled him back shook him from his shock.

"DEAN!"

"Sam! Hey. HEY!" Abe wrapped a strong arm around him, holding Sam back against him, keeping him from the edge.

"I gotta go after him!"

"Sam, it's twenty feet down—into the river," Abe said, pulling him back harder.

"Lemme _GO!_" Sam roared, pushing against Abe. "I gotta go after him!"

"HEY!" Sam heard Abe's rifle hit the ground as two mighty hands reached for his shirt front turning him around and shaking him harshly. "Not that way. SAM! _Not that way!_"

Sam blinked, gripping Abe's wrists for balance. "What?" He couldn't focus, couldn't breathe. His world spun. _Dean… gun… bullet… pier… water…_

"You want to save your brother?"

"Yes."

"Then pull yourself together and come with me." Abe released Sam, staring at him in the light left behind in the witching hour between evening and night, his eyes dark, unreadable. He bent, picked up his rifle, and started to follow the cliff edge at a jog.

_I've tried so hard to keep you safe… Dean…pier…gun…bullet… Who's your brother, Sam?_

"I'm right behind you," Sam called after Abe, breaking into a run along the cliff, following the tumbling cry of the river as it carried Dean away from him.

* * *

a/n: As per usual, I'm anxious to know what you think. I am trying to play through an idea with this story, and while it's plotted out, I find the characters have started taking some things over without first consulting me. (hrumph) So…as long as you're enjoying, I'll keep the music playing and see what happens…

Playlist:

_Baby Did a Bad, Bad Thing _by Chris Isaak

_Running Up That Hill_by Placebo

_For You_ by Staind

_Abandoned and Alone_ by Bad Company


	3. Look

**Disclaimer/Spoilers**: See Chapter 1

a/n: You guys have seriously humbled me—thank you for embracing this story so openly. I am honored that you spend so much time with my words and hope you hang with me as I try to stay the course.

Music is cranked, story is rolling.

Kelly - _go raibh maith agat._

* * *

_"And if you feel that you can't go on  
In the light you will find the road."_

_-- Led Zeppelin, "In the Light"_

_"Long as I'm around, nothing bad's gonna happen to you."_

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The world was delicious.

Hate and fear and sadness were abundant here. The darkness grew and with it came strength, power, corporeality. Once doomed to only watch, now it could see, taste, feel, touch.

Possess.

It was no longer bound by commands, no longer slave to another's wishes. Climbing inside skin, it relished the feel of the scream of denial, let laughter trip over insanity as the brief rebellion failed and the human will succumbed to acquisition.

It would draw out every painful memory, snapping the synapses of the fragile mind in its parasitic way until there was nothing but a hollow husk of a person remaining, then, crawling free, it would look for more. It would eat its way through each of them until it was satiated, spent.

Combing through the maze of dark memories, it nibbled on loneliness with a cackle of childlike glee.

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Cold.

Confusing, bone-aching, teeth cracking cold slammed into him like a freight train when he hit the water. Air fled his body and he was tumbled under the current, breathing liquid, disoriented, unable to discern up from down. Arms not his own tangled around his body, legs bumped and flailed and suddenly he could feel rocks below him, scraping, skittering along his hip and ribs.

Fear in its purest, paralyzing form gripped him as his lungs screamed for air and he beat frantically against the body wrapped around his, pressing his arm, his leg, his foot against the river bottom until he was moving up through the water, finally, blessedly breaking the surface.

Coughing viciously, feeling his lungs stripped of their lining and his throat scraped raw with the sound, Dean tried to kick his legs. He fought to keep from bobbing once again below the surface even as the river slapped him in the face, fingers of water climbing down his throat and into his nose and eyes. The current of the river was swift and he felt its motion pulling at him.

"Hel—help me!"

Sal's weak bleat came from his right and Dean felt clumsy hands pull at him, yank him beneath the surface once more. He pushed against the panicked embrace and broke into the swiftly darkening night.

"G-get…'way…" Dean gasped, trying to free himself. His head pounded, the cold from the river searing the slice on his forehead, chilling the blood that pounded slowly, heavily behind his eyes. "Lemme…go…"

"Can't swim!"

_Not my problem…_

Dean felt himself dragged down once more and knew as the water closed over his head that Sal was going to make it his problem. If the river didn't kill him, the hustler's terror would. He gasped as the night air once again stroked his wet skin, gagging on the water that seemed to be slowly filling his body with every fall into its clutches.

"Hold-hold on…" Dean panted, wrapping a trembling arm around Sal's chest, trying to keep them both above water. "Kick…man, kick with me…"

"Can't swim!"

"No shit, a-asshole." Dean spat water as the current splashed him. "_Kick_."

Dean's growl seemed to break through Sal's panic and Dean felt his heavy legs move in hesitant scissors against the current of the water, swimming for a shore Dean prayed was there. He couldn't see anything in the shallow canyon of night. Stars that danced in the corners of his vision could have been real or imagined.

The rock came out of nowhere. Dean had one second to gasp before the force of the water threw him against it, the weight of Sal's body pinning him from behind and suffocating him all at once. Currents of water wrapped around them and Dean felt himself fading even as his numb fingers clutched desperately for some kind of hold, some way around the granite jutting into his belly.

"Edge!" Sal cried.

"Wh-wha…"

"I see the edge!"

Dean felt Sal move against him, using Dean's body as an anchor to push himself around the large rock. Dean cried out weakly as Sal's efforts pressed him harder into the surface and he felt a sharp, tearing pain slicing through him, searing length-wise down his stomach. _Not good…_

"I can…can touch…"

_Good, gimme a hand out of here…_

Over the low roar of the rushing river, Dean was amazed that he could actually hear splashing as Sal moved away from him and clamored through the shallows of the river to the water's edge. Digging his fingertips into the sharp edges of the rock, Dean rolled his body around so the he could see the dim outline of Sal reaching safety. He didn't have the air to call out. The thought of it sickened him. But he was drowning.

He reached out his hand toward Sal and was rewarded with a quick flash of teeth and a departing back.

_Sonuvabitch…_

The surge of the water pulled at his legs, drawing him away from the rock without Sal's bulk to hold him there. Dean's hands were too cold to keep his grip. With the image of Sal's escape blending with the memory of Sam's frightened eyes, Dean tumbled into the arms of the river once more, fighting valiantly for air as the water carried him away from any idea of safety.

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_Who's your brother Sam_…

Sam stumbled over another root, this time going to his knees. He brought his head up, making sure he could still see Abe. The man moved like quicksilver.

_How the hell is he seeing anything? It's pitch dark out here…_

"Sam?"

"Right behind you."

"Don't fall too far behind," Abe said, sounding barely winded. "It's going to take both of us if we're going to save him."

"I said I'm here," Sam snapped, surging to his feet and catching up quickly. "How do you know where to go?"

_Because I'm an awesome big brother…_

"I don't." Abe shot him a look that Sam couldn't make out in the dim starlight. "The river will tell us where to go."

"The river?" Sam dodged a tree, keeping up the near-jogging pace that Abe had set. The wooded terrain was sloping downhill and the river seemed increasingly closer.

_First, you tell me that you've got the Shining and then you tell me that I have to go back home?_

"Everything has a voice, Sam."

"Even water?"

_I've seen what Evil does to good people…_

"Especially water," Abe shot back. "It travels many miles from origin to destination. It destroys, gives life, shapes rock…too little of it can kill just as quickly as too much."

Sam just shook his head. "So what's it telling you now?" He could hear the water's flow below and to his left. He strained his ears for any sign of Dean perhaps calling out, giving him hope.

_We're stronger as a family, Dad, we just are. You know it._

"It's telling me that it will soon slow." Abe stopped suddenly, jutting his arm out and halting Sam with its pressure against Sam's chest. "Listen."

"What?" Sam licked his dry lips. "I don't hear anything." _Except Dean's voice in my head…_

"It's getting shallow." Abe started to shift around and Sam kept his eyes on the older man, trying to draw the conclusion before Abe did. His mind felt like molasses. He was wading through a murk of memories, images of his brother fighting, laughing, head dropped back in pain, bleeding. He imagined he could feel Dean next to him, close, but too far away to touch.

"The river narrows there." Abe pointed off into the distance and Sam felt a shiver shake through him. Abe had the eyes of an eagle; there were aspects of this man Sam knew he shouldn't take for granted. "We'll go down. Here," Abe slid the strap of his rifle from his shoulder, hefting the gun in his grip. "We'll climb down."

"How the hell—" Sam's incredulous protest was cut short as Abe went to his knees, then swung a leg over the cliff edge. Swallowing an insane rush of vertigo, Sam joined him on the ground, crawling to the edge. To his immense relief, he saw that they had indeed been traveling downhill: the distance from the cliff edge to the river was barely a quarter of the distance Dean had fallen.

As he heard Abe's rifle crack against the side of the rock face, Sam thought of Dean's empty .45 lying forgotten back in the woods.

"How did you know the Three Stooges were there?"

Abe looked up and Sam saw the starlight glinting in his dark eyes. "What?"

Sam swung his leg over the edge when Abe was low enough that he wouldn't kick him. "Sal and his bunch."

Abe actually chuckled. "Stooges…"

Sam concentrated on not falling. His toes skidded down the rock face and his fingers cramped as they gripped tightly.

"I dropped you off," Abe continued, grunting as he dropped to the narrow strip of ground that doubled as a shore, "went inside the _Hideout_ and Yeats was loading his rifle. He had one for me. I could just tell…there was something about the way he…" Abe shook his head as Sam landed next to him.

"What? Did he say something?"

They started to walk along the swiftly widening shore, following the river as it tripped and tumbled away from them.

"No, but…" Abe stepped in front of Sam, his face turned to the water. "There was just something there… in his eyes. Something I wasn't able to understand."

"Everybody has secrets," Sam said.

"True," Abe agreed. "I grabbed the rifle and went to find you. I heard your voice and I knew you were in trouble."

"Dammit, where is he…" Sam muttered, eyes searching the sparkling flash of rapids flowing over hidden rocks. "Could we have missed him?"

Abe shook his head. "I don't know."

_I've tried so hard to keep you safe…_

"Dean!" Sam called out, desperate for an answer. "DEAN!"

The odd non-silence of the rolling river mocked him.

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Dean had stopped fighting the river and was now focused on keeping his lips above water. If he could keep them in the air, he could breathe._ Breathing is good. Breathing means I can get out of here… _His arms were lead, his heavy, frozen legs bounced and skittered against rocks sheltered by the flowing water. The water changed in depth, but never seemed shallow enough to get a foothold. He was coughing water out of his lungs with more frequency then he was pulling air in. He knew he was weakening, he was going under, and there wouldn't be a return.

_Sam…_

He was going to leave Sam.

_Oh, God, Sammy…_ Dean saw images of Sam flash like a movie on fast forward. Scraped knees and training wheels, homework and haircuts, shaving and learning to drive, fights for each other, fights with each other, laughing and crying, grabbing and holding, surviving…

Feeling him self sink once more, Dean worked his arms against the churn of the water, and just before the water closed over his lips, the howl of the wolf caught him. It was the sound his heart made when he watched his father burn. It was the sound of Sam's tears and his own helplessness as he beat against his car.

Fighting to keep his head up, Dean felt his legs drag against the bottom of the river once more. He pressed his feet against the sandy bottom, roughly shoving himself to the side, toward the sound. The wan starlight seemed to brighten for one brief moment and Dean saw Lobo dancing at the edge of land downriver from him.

_Fight, dammit…__**fight**__ this._

Willing his heavy arms to move, he dug his toes into the earth, trying to push sideways against the rush of the water. He was so cold he was no longer shaking. His blurry vision faded and he felt himself sink forward, felt his lips go under. As water rushed gleefully forward to fill his nose and mouth, he detected a slight tug at his collar, just below the nape of his neck.

Coughing, choking, he brought his head up, but was unable to do much more. His body ebbed with the flow of the river, but he could suddenly tell he was moving _against _the rush, and not _with_ it.

_Atta boy, Lobo…_

The pebbles that peppered the shallow, sandy shore dug into his knees as his water-saturated body was pulled forward, then dropped. Rocks dug into his cheek and cold encompassed him. He dragged his arms forward, the backs of his hands skittering across the rocky shoreline. He felt himself choking on river water, his abused lungs waving the white flag of surrender. The tug on his collar was more insistent this time and Dean obeyed, crawling forward until all but his legs were free of the water.

There, he retched water from the hollows of his body, unable to do more than drag in air. As he surrendered to the oblivion that had tracked him since falling into the river, he felt Lobo's heavy, wet body press against his side.

www

"Sam," Abe started, knowing he had to prepare the boy for what they might find.

"No," Sam pushed ahead of Abe. "No, don't."

"You need to be ready—"

"NO!" Sam snapped. "He's not dead. He can't be." He walked faster.

Abe swallowed. "I want him to be okay, too, Sam, but—"

"Shut the hell up!" Sam whirled around, gripping Abe's jacket with iron fingers, surprising him with fierce strength born of desperation. "Dean is too strong, okay? He's survived too much."

_You both have, _Abe thought.

"Okay, Sam," Abe nodded, wrapping a warm hand over Sam's trembling grasp. "Okay."

Sam nodded once, releasing Abe, then reached up and gripped the bridge of his nose. Abe couldn't see his eyes, but worry stabbed through him.

"Sam?"

"It's okay, just… my head…" Sam stumbled back a little. "Not… a vision, but… Gah, jeeze, what the…"

"Vision?" Abe reached for Sam's shoulder, trying to brace him. _Vision? Sam had visions?!_ "What is it?"

"I can't see anything." Sam fell to his knees. "Usually… when it hurts like this…I can see…"

"What? See what?" Abe leaned closer.

"Guh, something… _anything_… it's just… it's black…"

And then he heard it. A howl. In the distance, quiet, almost indiscernible, but it was the lonely howl of the wolf.

"Sam." Abe gripped Sam's shoulder tighter. "Sam, get up."

Sam was trembling under Abe's hand. He suddenly cried out, falling forward to catch himself with his hands. Abe stumbled back.

"Dean," Sam whispered, breathing as though for the first time. "Dean…"

"Sam listen." Abe grabbed Sam's jacket sleeve. "The wolf."

Sam brought his head up. Again, Abe wished he could see the boy's eyes. So much was held in the eyes of secret keepers.

"Wolf?"

"The wolf cries for lost spirits trying to return to earth."

"You mean Dean?"

"Get up," Abe said again, pulling at Sam's sleeve. "We have to move. Now."

Sam stumbled to his feet, rubbing roughly at his forehead. Gripping his jacket sleeve, Abe propelled them both forward, following the shore as the river twisted slightly east. The night had swallowed them whole, allowing for only tiny pinpricks of light, but Abe could see the shapes and shadows of the ground before them, a gift of night vision granted to him since birth.

He kept a tight hold on Sam's arm, maneuvering the boy around rocks and over fallen branches from the forest to their right. The shoreline had widened as the river narrowed creating a sluice of water through the flat canyon. The tension of the moment built inside of him until he felt thin, wrapped taut, well-strung like the instrument he was meant to be. It was no accident that he had found this hunt, that he had found this place, that he had crossed paths with these boys once more.

Fate had a way of weaving people together when they needed each other, despite human efforts to the contrary.

"Oh God," Sam suddenly breathed, drawing Abe's eyes up from the ground that seemed determined to grab hold and pull them down. A short distance from them, he could see a dark lump—decidedly _not_ rock-like—at the edge of the river.

"It's him." Sam started forward.

"Wait." Instinct had Abe tightening his grip just before the growl raised hairs on the back of his neck.

He couldn't see the Lobo in the darkness, but he was upwind from the animal. The feral scent was unmistakable. He felt Sam tense next to him, and knew that Sam was concentrating only on the fact that the creature was between him and his brother.

"Lobo," Sam said softly. "It's…it's me…"

"He doesn't recognize you," Abe said.

"Can he see me?"

"I don't know."

As if in answer to a silent prayer, a dim, blue-green glow danced over them and skipped across the water to illuminate the wolf-dog crouched before them. Abe could see the hair along Lobo's back at attention, his upper lip curled, exposing the vicious white fangs that betrayed his mixed breeding. He was spread out in an aggressive stance, ready to spring and protect his adopted charge.

"What the hell?" Sam whispered, keeping his focus on Lobo.

"Aurora borealis," Abe replied.

"It just shows up like that?"

"Sometimes, yeah." Abe stepped forward as the light from the humming gasses above them built, increasing in beauty and intensity and casting a greenish hue over the body at the edge of the water. "Easy, boy," he said softly. "We're not going to hurt him."

Lobo bent lower, his muzzle nearly to the ground and Abe tensed. If the dog sprang, there would be little he could do but shoot him. _Please…_

Sam stepped forward boldly and Abe drew in a breath.

"Lobo." Sam's voice crackled with the command for attention. "You did good, boy."

Keeping his hands out and open, palm up, Sam stepped ever closer to the snarling dog. Abe gripped the rifle tightly, ready to bring it up if Lobo lunged. To his surprise, the dog relaxed when Sam drew close enough to reach out and touch him. He sniffed Sam's hand, darted a quick tongue out, then sat, allowing Sam to pass.

Abe stepped carefully around the dog, keeping a respectful distance as the Northern Lights echoed wildly in the animals large brown eyes. Once on the other side of Lobo, Abe hurried to join Sam next to Dean's inert form.

"He's breathing," Sam reported, his hand on his brother's neck. "I can feel a pulse—it's slow, but it's there."

"We need to get him away from the water." Abe slung the strap of the rifle over his shoulder, gripping Dean's other shoulder and together with Sam, pulled Dean's sodden body free of the icy river and as far up on the shore as they could go.

The cliff face tapered quickly at the narrow point of the river, joining the forest with the shore and offering them an alcove of protection. The ground was soft and sandy, pebbles left behind at the edge of the river.

"God, Abe, he's like ice." Sam rolled Dean's wet form into his lap.

"We have to warm him up. Now." Abe dropped his rifle, and pulled his survival knife from its sheath in his waistband. "Start getting his wet clothes off. Wrap him in our coats."

"Gotta warm him from his core out," Sam was saying as his fingers fumbled with Dean's jacket, the surreal light that tripped over the sky casting an odd light on Dean's lax face as his head lolled against Sam's leg. "So the warmer blood doesn't shock his heart."

"Right." Abe handed Sam his jacket, then unscrewed the end of his knife, emptying the hilt of waterproof matches, fishing line and hook, and a tiny compass. "I'll find some wood. Make a fire. Hurry, Sam."

www

_He's not even shivering…_

Sam's worry was complete as he pulled Dean's wet jacket from his brother and Dean's head dropped back. With fingers shaking from fear as much as cold, Sam worked the buttons of his brother's shirt free, rolling it away from his shoulders and off his arms. He worked the T-shirt off over Dean's head, wincing as his brother's body shifted back against the sand.

The bandage Maggie had applied to Dean's wounded shoulder slipped off with his shirt, exposing the raw bullet hole to the air. It wasn't bleeding, and for that Sam was grateful. He wrapped Abe's smaller coat around Dean's torso, noticing a gash running vertically down Dean's belly, beginning just under his ribs. It started as a small slice a few inches below Dean's sternum and ended in a jagged-edge hole next to his navel that caused Sam to wince with empathy.

Amazingly, it wasn't bleeding either. Fear born of blue-tinged skin around his brother's full lips had Sam dismissing the wound and fumbling with Dean's button-fly.

"Now would be a good time to wakeup and give me hell about personal space, man," he muttered. Dean was too quiet, too still. He worked Dean's sodden jeans off, tossing them aside with his socks and boots and wrapped his larger coat around his brother's pale legs.

Dean rolled limply in his arms, his head falling back to rest in the crook of Sam's arm. Face fisted in tight worry, Sam shrugged his shoulder, moving Dean's head up until it rested against his collarbone.

"C'mon, man," Sam gathered Dean up against him, rubbing at his chest, Dean's back against his front. They had sat like this once before, Dean's blood seeping into him from wounds inflicted by the vicious claws of a wendigo. "Please, Dean…"

"Body heat, Sam," Abe panted, returning with an arm-load of firewood. "Give him yours, as much as you can."

Sam frowned. "How?"

"Get your shirt off." Abe started stacking wood into a pile, balancing it over a small stack of dried leaves. "Hurry, Sam. He's not even shivering."

"I know," Sam leaned Dean forward, pulling his own long sleeved shirt off and adding it to the make-shift blankets, then pulled his T-shirt over his head, dropping it on the ground next to him and pulled Dean's icy back against him. "Holy shit, he's cold," Sam gasped.

"Have to get him warm or we're going to lose him," Abe said, using the water-proof matches to light the leaves, adding fuel to the fire as soon as the flames caught.

"Like hell we are." Sam pulled his brother close. "Dean, don't you do this to me," he whispered against his brother's ear.

As he moved his hands across Dean's chest, his biceps working against Dean's upper arms as he moved, Sam realized he could feel the slow thud of Dean's heart through his back. It wasn't nearly fast enough. "C'mon, big brother, give me a sign here."

Sam felt the heat from Abe's fire lick his face and scooted as close as he dared, clutching his brother's body tightly. As he focused his efforts on Dean, everything faded into the background. The liquid light caressing the earth, Lobo's anxious pacing, Abe's worried face.

There was nothing but Sam and Dean and the fire. Nothing but moments and memories and time.

"You remember when you taught me how to swim?" Sam asked, his lips close to Dean's ear, knowing that somehow in his brother's frozen state he could hear him. Dean could always hear him. "I was just a skinny kid, littler than everyone else at that public pool. Some dude pushed me in and I freaked out."

Hands moving back and forth. Arms moving up and down.

"After you gave that kid the scare of his life, you took me to the deep end of the pool. I thought you were insane. But you said if I was gonna learn something, I was gonna be able to do it as good as or better than anyone else. Even you."

Dean started to shiver. Sam felt the tremor shake through him and started to move his hands from Dean's chest to his arms, then his legs, vigorously encouraging his blood to flow, to warm.

"We were in that water all damn day. Until my fingers were pruney and you could barely move your arms from treading water for so long. But I did it. I swam the length of that pool."

Sam felt Dean's heart skip, then pick up, felt his jaw tremble as his teeth started to chatter.

"You never gave up on me, Dean." Sam's throat twisted tight for a moment. "Never. Not once. Not even when you should have."

Dean's shivering increased and sparks from the fire before them caught Sam's eye, drawing him back to the present, reminding him that there were others around.

"He's shivering," Sam said softly.

"I know," Abe replied, equally as soft.

"That's good, right?"

"We need to get his body temperature up," was all Abe said.

Sam continued to rub his brother's legs, the cold skin of Dean's back melding with the skin of Sam's chest and chilling him. He felt his own jaw tremble and was soon aware that Abe was moving around him. He frowned, trying to follow his movements. He felt Abe's flannel shirt drift across his shoulders.

"Gotta keep you warm, too," Abe explained, crouching down by Dean's legs. "I'm gonna work on his legs, okay?"

Sam was aware that Abe was speaking very carefully, as if wary of Sam. His frown deepened. "Okay."

He moved his arms back up to Dean's torso, working over his brother's body, trying to return the warmth the river had sucked away. Between them and the river, Lobo continued to pace. Sam suddenly realized that the firelight seemed to brighten and glanced up to see the lights of the aurora borealis fading.

"It's going away."

"It does that," Abe nodded.

Lobo sat, raising his nose to the sky and cried out a sound that wrapped around Sam's heart.

"He saved Dean," Sam whispered, his voice stuttering with the efforts of his movements.

"Animals sense kindred souls," Abe said simply.

"What?"

"The wolf…" Abe worked on Dean's calves, his large hands moving swiftly over the muscles there. "It is a symbol of devotion to family and pack, a consummate hunter, known for its endurance and stoicism. My people emulate it, revere it."

"Huh," Sam shifted, adjusting his grip on Dean as he felt his brother's shivering increase.

"The dog is loyal to a fault. It will return to a master time and again, regardless of treatment."

Sam swallowed, feeling Dean's cold face against his neck.

"As he has both hearts beating inside of him, the Lobo searches for peace. But I don't know that he will ever find it."

"And you think that's why he saved Dean?"

"Maybe," Abe lifted a shoulder. "Maybe."

_Kindred souls, _Sam thought, sliding his hands from Dean's arms to his torso once more. He jerked back when his left hand contacted something sticky and wet.

"What the—"

"Is that blood?" Abe's voice cracked in time with the fire.

"Where did it come from?" Sam scrambled through the clothing that he'd wrapped around his brother, pulling them aside to get to the skin underneath. "Oh, shit."

"Did you see that before?"

"It wasn't bleeding before." The gash on Dean's belly had suddenly seemed to open up, spilling copious amounts of precious blood.

"Maybe he was too cold."

"What about his shoulder?" Sam asked hurriedly.

Abe slid the top of the coat away. "It's just seeping."

Dean groaned, stirring in Sam's arms as Abe pressed a hand against the wound on his belly to staunch the flow of blood.

"Dean?" Sam encouraged.

Dean groaned again, his face contorting with pain.

"Can't… can't…" he muttered.

"It's okay, Dean. You don't have to."

"Sam…" The name was hissed through clenched teeth.

"I'm here."

"S-so cold."

"I know, I know," Sam wrapped his arm tighter around Dean's shoulders, careful of the wound there, resting his chin on his brother's head. "Hang in there, big brother."

"Gimme your T-shirt," Abe ordered.

Sam handed it to him. Abe pressed it against Dean's side, causing him to cry out in pain, his eyes snapping open.

"Jesus Christ," Dean gasped. "What the friggin' _hell_…"

"You're bleeding."

"So… you decided to stab me?" Dean slurred.

"Gotta get it stopped, man," Sam said.

"God, Sam." Dean's eyes slid closed and his jaw muscle bounced as he clenched his teeth against another cry of pain.

"Abe—you got fishing line in that knife, right?"

Abe nodded, grabbing his knife hilt. "It's awfully thick," he said, regret in his voice. "And the hook…" He held it up for Sam to see in the firelight.

"You ain't stickin' that th-thing in me," Dean said, peering at the dangerously tipped, curved piece of metal. He shivering was so violent now Abe was having trouble holding the wadded up T-shirt against his belly.

"No," Sam shook his head. "That's not gonna work."

"Aww, _fuck_, Sam." Dean arched against Sam's leg, pushing away from him and from Abe's pressure, trying to break free.

"Hold still, man," Sam held him. "Please. We have to stop this bleeding."

"How?" Dean panted.

"Working on that."

"There is one way," Abe said, looking over at the fire.

"What?" Sam frowned, following Abe's eye line. "Burn him?"

"What?!" Dean squeaked.

"Not him. The wound."

"Oh shit," Sam and Dean breathed together. Silence surrounded them for a moment as Dean lay trembling in his brother's arms.

"Sam," Dean whispered finally, his eyes blinking shut, lashes stuck together from the gritty river water.

Sam leaned close. "Yeah, Dean."

"Sal's…" Dean swallowed, his jaw muscles tightening against a shivering wave of pain. "Sal's out."

"Out?"

"Climbed out."

Sam went still. "He climbed out of the river?"

"Yeah."

"Did you help him?"

"Yeah."

"I'm gonna kill him." Sam felt his lips draw back against his teeth in a snarl.

"Get in line."

"There won't be a line if you bleed to death first," Abe pointed out.

Sam felt Dean shift against his chest so that he could look up at his brother's face. The firelight snaked tendrils of shadows across the familiar planes of Dean's face, throwing light into his unmistakable green eyes.

He peered down at Dean, both wanting to know and fearing the truth he saw very clearly on Dean's face: his brother thought this would end him.

"No." Sam just shook his head.

"Sam—"

"No. You're tougher than that."

"Cold." Dean's eyes slid closed. "Hurts."

"Open your eyes," Sam commanded, seeing Abe shift and knew he was thrusting the blade of his knife into the fire. "Dean, dammit, _open your eyes_."

Dean blinked his eyes open. "Jesus, Sam." Sam felt his brother's back muscle tighten against his leg once more, felt his shoulder press helplessly against his chest.

"I know it hurts. I know you're tired. But you fight, dammit. _Fight this._"

At those words, Dean's eyes widened. "'Kay."

"I'm not going anywhere, man."

Dean's eyes were pinned to Sam's face, the struggle to keep them open apparent in the creases fanning out from the sweep of his lashes. Sam tightened his hold, nodding emphatically.

"You just look at me, Dean. Keep your eyes up."

Dean blinked.

"Keep them on me, okay? I'll be right here. You can kick his ass tomorrow."

"W-we… we kick his ass… together."

Sam's smile shook. "You bet we will."

"'kay."

"Abe?" Sam looked up, watching as Abe studied the knife glowing in the depths of the heated coals. "This gonna work?"

"It better."

"That's not exactly what I was looking for."

Abe met his eyes. "It's all I got."

Sam swallowed, feeling his heart rate kick up a notch, then nodded. Abe used Sam's T-shirt and wiped away as much of the blood as he could.

"Hold him, Sam." Abe voice was edged with fear.

Sam fumbled his hand down to grab onto Dean's fingers, thankful to find warmth there after the numbing cold that had seemed to cocoon his brother earlier. Dean gripped back. Sam wrapped his other arm around the front of Dean's chest, anchoring him. Dean reached up and gripped Sam's wrist, the muscles of his forearm coiling tight.

"Look at me, Dean."

Dean eyes blinked up, lids appearing to weigh a hundred pounds each, but he looked at Sam.

"That's it," Sam nodded, tightening his grip. "Keep them on me."

"Ready?" Abe asked softly.

The brothers shared a quick nod, not breaking eye contact.

Wrapping the bloody T-shirt around the hilt of the hot knife, Abe withdrew it from the fire, then laid the glowing blade against the torn, sensitive skin of Dean's stomach.

"AHH!" Dean's scream of pain tore through Sam.

The cry echoed off of the river and shimmied through the air in an almost visible wave. It was echoed by a soul-searing howl from Lobo.

Sam tightened his arm as his brother bucked against the intense pain, swallowed the nausea that rippled through him at the scent of burning flesh. Abe withdrew the knife quickly, not wanting to cause further damage. The wound was blackened at the edges, but closed with red, puckered skin.

With a surrendering whimper, Dean's eyes rolled back in his head and he sagged in Sam's arms, silent, spent.

"Dean?" Sam pleaded as he felt Dean's fingers slid from his wrist and go limp in his hand. He reached up to shakily check his brother's pulse, breathing once more when he felt the stutter of a heart beat slam a staccato rhythm against his probing fingers. "He's…it's still beating."

"We…" Abe pressed the back of his hand against his mouth, and Sam saw the older man was shaking as badly as he. "We need to wrap this somehow. Can't let him go into… into shock."

"He's still shivering."

"I know," Abe said, turning and putting more wood on the fire. He grabbed Dean's wet clothes and spread them on the rocks that surrounded the small encampment, close to the fire. "I'll be back."

"Wait—where are you…"

But Abe had stood and was gone, leaving Sam alone with his wounded brother. Taking a breath, Sam adjusted the coats around Dean so that he was covered shoulder to ankle. He slouched until he felt a boulder at his back. Abe's flannel shirt kept his warmth in and Dean's body was slowly beginning to heat up against him.

Dean's shivering began to calm as they sat in the sandy dirt of the night, illuminated by the orange glow of firelight. Unable to do more than hold him, Sam rested his chin once more on the top of Dean's head, relishing the rarity of contact, the physical closeness with his brother he hadn't felt in a long time.

"I'm sorry I made you promise me," Sam whispered. Lobo padded closer, pacing anxiously back and forth by the fire, eyeing the flames. _I've tried so hard to keep you safe…_ "I should never have asked that of you."

The big dog paused, staring at Dean in Sam's arms, then hesitantly closed the space between them.

"You're the bravest person I know, man." Sam closed his eyes.

He felt a slight _whoosh _of air as Lobo sank into the sand, resting his head on Sam's leg, his muzzle on Dean's arm.

www

Abe was sick the minute he was out of earshot. He shivered when he was done; his thin T-shirt not enough protection against the cold grasp of night, stars offering little light and zero warmth. Stumbling toward the river, he scooped up a handful of the icy water and rinsed the taste of his weakness from his mouth.

_Grab hold of yourself, Migizi_…

Abe had held his own father as he died, looked into the eyes of his lover as she slipped away, and killed both man and beast when necessity called for it. But nothing had hit him like that cry of anguish from Dean. The echo of the Lobo had wrapped around him, suffocating him with the need to fix this, save them.

Resting back on his haunches for a moment, Abe lifted his gaze to the stars, knowing their dead light offered comfort to some. They chilled him tonight. Closing his eyes, he tucked his chin close to his chest, his silver earring sliding along his cheek. His dark plait shifted across his back. Slowly pulling air in through his nose, he called the peace of his people to him. Reaching down, he dug his fingers into the damp earth on either side of him, grounding himself. He listened to the rush of the river, the call of the crickets, the stir of wind in the tops of the trees.

He felt the scant warmth of the earth seep up through his fingers, building inside of him, stirring memories. He'd been on a path, in search of purpose, when he first found these brothers. Encountering them those many months ago—before they lost their father, had their lives irrevocably changed for the second time, and had been asked to survive an impossible promise—had shown him what true strength and selflessness meant.

_Always did work best as a team, those two…_

John Winchester's words tossed their way back through his memory.

_Dean doesn't know how to quit. He just doesn't._

The difference in the boys now, though, was that pain was laced through their every word, every deed. He saw their spirits clinging to each other even as their hearts were silent. He knew his path had veered this way for a purpose. He'd thought it was to stop the witch—_spirit_—but he now knew it was to help save these brothers.

Pushing himself to his feet, Abe gathered more firewood and, using an impeccable sense of direction, returned to the fire. He stopped cold when he saw the brothers. Another step and he felt he would be intruding on a moment of peace rarely seen in the lives of these two warriors. Dean lay against his brother, his head resting on Sam's collarbone, his eyes closed, mouth tight even in unconsciousness. Sam's eyes were on the fire, his cheek against the top of Dean's head, his arms wrapped in a protective, almost possessive, embrace. His body language told Abe all he needed to know: Sam may be Dean's purpose in life, but Dean was Sam's anchor. His connection to reality.

It was more than getting them out of the woods this time. Much more.

Abe stepped forward. Lobo brought his head up at Abe's approach, but was silent. The animal was pressed against Sam's leg, his body between the brothers and the opening to the alcove. Guarding them. Abe nodded once into Lobo's eyes.

"Sam," Abe said softly, dropping the wood next to the fire. Sam jerked, startled, and looked up.

"What?"

"Easy, it's okay." Abe tapped the air. "We need to bandage Dean's wound."

Sam blinked, looking down at his unconscious brother. "Right."

Abe pulled his T-shirt over his head. Sam looked at him with surprise.

"You're gonna be cold."

"I'll, uh, rinse out your shirt. Put that on once it dries. We can use mine for Dean until we get back to Maggie's."

"Abe?"

"Yeah?"

"He's warm."

"That's good."

"No," Sam said, bringing Abe's head around. "I mean, really warm."

Abe frowned, watching Sam's hand on Dean's face. "His body has been through a lot, Sam."

"We gotta get him back to Maggie's."

_No argument there._

"One thing at a time," Abe said, hurrying to the river's edge and rinsing his bloody, blackened knife in the water as best he could. Returning to the campfire, he cut his shirt into strips, and began to carefully wrap the make-shift bandages around Dean's middle.

The soft touch of the cloth across his burned, wounded skin caused Dean to flinch and stir. A line appeared between his brows, causing Abe to want to smooth his thumb there, easing the worry from the young face. He tied off the bandages, then moved to Dean's seeping shoulder. Padding the puckered hole with a clean bandage, he wrapped the last strip of cloth under Dean's arm and held the bandage in place.

By the time he'd finished, Dean was blinking his eyes open.

"Sam?"

"Hey."

Abe heard the same sleepy surprise in Sam's voice that had been there when the younger man had first greeted him—_God, was that just last night?_

"Am I… why am I layin' on you?"

"Well," Sam shifted as Abe tied off the bandage. "For starters, you did a Butch and Sundance into the river."

"Oh… riiight." Dean drew the word out as memory surfaced in his large eyes. He started to sit up, then hissed, his hand shooting to his belly. "Oh, yeah."

"You remember now?"

"Unfortunately. Friggin' rock."

"You're hot, man."

Abe watched Dean blink and swore he saw a smirk tease the corner of his lips.

"Not something I want to hear from my little brother when I'm lying half naked in his lap."

"You're such a friggin' jerk." Sam said affectionately.

Dean just smiled and closed his eyes. Abe scooted over and checked Dean's clothes. Still damp. Lobo had made himself comfortable next to the brothers, quietly adding his body heat.

"We'll head back to Maggie's at first light," Abe said, watching the dog curiously. It wasn't like a wild thing to allow such closeness. To allow touch. Abe had said Lobo sensed a kindred spirit in Dean, but again there was more to this than what his eyes were allowing.

"How long is that?" Sam asked.

Abe lifted an eyebrow. "I'm good, kid, but I can't tell time by starlight."

Dean chuckled fragilely.

"We just need to keep you warm, Dean. We'll get you back to a doctor at Maggie's." Abe didn't want to think about the bacteria his wound could have collected while he'd been tossed about in the river. He was counting on the hunters indomitable will to get him back to safety before nature turned against him.

Dean was silent, his expression unreadable in the firelight.

Sam sighed. "Too bad we didn't grab something to eat before we dove through that window."

"What'd those assholes even want?" Dean muttered. Abe saw a latent shiver flow through him.

"Their money," Sam answered.

The group was quiet for a moment and Abe added more wood to the fire. He watched Sam reach up and rub at his head, remembering the pain that had driven him to his knees earlier.

"How's your head doing, Sam?"

The line that Abe had wanted to smooth away earlier immediately returned and drew Dean's eyebrows close. "What happened to your head?"

"Nothing. It's fine." Sam answered both of them.

"You have a vision?" Dean pressed.

As worry increased his volume, Abe heard the damage the river had done to Dean's throat. The roll of sound from Dean's full lips was reminiscent of John Winchester—water over rock, focused, but rough. Abe swallowed, needing to wet his own throat in reaction.

"Not… exactly."

"How do you _not exactly_ have a vision?"

"It felt like one, but… I didn't see anything. It was all just… dark."

"Dark?"

"Yeah, dark. I couldn't see…anything. And then I—"

"You what, Sam?" Dean's rough voice commanded an answer. Abe felt himself sitting up straighter at the sound of it.

"I felt you."

"You…felt me?"

"I know how it sounds, okay, but…yeah. I felt you."

The fire snapped, sending sparks into the silence.

"You okay now?"

"Yeah, Dean. I'm fine. You don't have to worry about me."

"It's my job," Dean said softly.

"Maybe that's the problem," Sam replied.

"Hmm?"

Abe dropped his chin, watching them closely.

"Maybe if you worried about yourself more often—"

"Don't, Sam."

Abe closed his eyes, feeling Sam's frustration from denied absolution as acutely as he felt Dean's pain. And not the pain from his wounds. A pain that went deeper.

_He needs you to forgive him,_ Abe thought suddenly, realizing he wasn't sure which brother he was referring to—the one who had allowed the possession, or the one that had been possessed.

"Dean, I just… I don't know what to say."

"About what?" Dean's voice was weakening.

"I can't let it go."

"I've noticed."

"I don't know _how_ to let it go."

"You…" Dean licked his lips, his heavy-lidded eyes brushing lashes across his cheeks. "You just do."

Dean winced, starting to push away from Sam.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm still laying on you, Sam."

"Yeah, so?"

"So it's… weird."

"For God's sake, Dean, you were about half-frozen not more than an hour ago."

"I'm warmer now." Dean said, his lips pouting out.

"Yeah? Well, you probably have a fever."

"Dean," Abe said quietly. "Just lay still a while longer. I won't tell."

Sam smirked, then glanced down at his brother's profile. "You getting cold again?"

"Why?"

"You're shaking."

Abe watched Lobo crawl closer, pressing his thick body against the brothers, instinctively offering warmth.

"Atta boy," Dean whispered, reaching out a hand and sliding his fingers through the thick fur at the nape of Lobo's neck in a silent _thank you_.

Abe ran calloused fingers across his lips, watching the wolf-dog as its eyes glinted off the light from the fire. He had once walked the path of the shaman. Somewhere along the way, he'd lost that sight. He began to look too much with his eyes and not enough with his heart. Lobo stared back at him, his large body pressed close to the brothers, his gaze knowing and unnerving.

"You hear me tell Sal about his ring?"

"His ring?"

Abe knew Sam was desperate to keep his brother with him, but he could hear the exhaustion in Dean's voice. He opened his mouth to suggest Dean get his rest when Sam spoke again.

"He graduated in '92."

"Huh. Think someone's looking for him."

"That's what I said."

Abe saw Dean blink his eyes open, interest sparking there. "What are you thinking, Sam?"

Sam rolled his neck. "I think I need to research some more, but…"

"But what?" Abe prompted.

"Well, when I was looking up those names back at Maggie's, I tried to find something besides belladonna poisoning that might have killed them."

"I didn't know that," Abe confessed.

"I didn't get far," Sam shook his head. "I was just doing a quick search, but I came across something that I hadn't heard of before."

"An our kind of something?" Dean asked, shifting his head so he could look up at Sam.

"Yeah, definitely. It's called an ikiryoh."

"Of course it is," Dean muttered.

"It's created by hatred, evil thoughts. It kills by slowly draining the life from you—causing you to relive every horrible thing—Dean? You okay?"

"Yeah… just… hurts."

Abe shot his eyes to Dean, seeing sweat actually gathering along his face in the firelight. The temperature extremes his body had been through alone would be enough to weaken him, but coupled with the cut on his stomach and the river's brutality…

"Go on, Sam," Dean ground out. "Keep talking."

"You sure? You're—"

"Jesus, man, unless you got some… something to make this… go away… just _keep talking_."

Abe saw Sam swallow. "Okay, right, so…"

Dean arched slightly against Sam, clenching his teeth tightly as he tried to keep a groan inside.

"The ikiryoh eventually suffocates you—after it makes you feel cold and hopeless and see, or, like, relive all the bad things in your life. Sound familiar?"

"Sounds like belladonna poisoning," Abe commented.

"Or something out of Harry Potter," Dean wheezed, eyes closed tight.

"Dude—you read Harry Potter?" Sam replied, incredulous despite the moment.

"Who…who hasn't?"

"My ass. You saw it on Pay Per View."

"Yeah, well… When… they don't have… porn…"

"How do you stop it?" Abe asked, twisting his fingers in tense concern as he watched Dean reach out instinctively for Sam's arm, and Sam's return grasp of balance as he fought against a particularly harsh wave of pain.

"Uh…" Sam's face pulled together in a war of worry and memory. Abe could practically see him scrolling through the images of computer screens in his mind. "I didn't… I don't think I—"

"_Fuck_, Sam," Dean whispered. "I can't…"

"Easy," Sam soothed, his voice low, calming. "Just breathe with me, man. Slow, easy breaths, Dean. That's it. There you go."

Dean pressed his lips out, easing the breath from his body. "Sucks out loud…"

"Still thinking about no porn in the motel rooms?"

Dean tried to laugh, but ended up just gripping Sam's arm tighter.

Abe ran a hand over his mouth.

"Try to get some rest," Abe instructed. Sam looked up at him, an eyebrow lifted in disbelief. "The night can't last forever."

www

"Hi, Dean."

"Dad?"

"How ya been?"

He was dreaming. He _had to be_ dreaming.

"Well…that's a bit of a loaded question."

"I imagine so."

His eyes were closed but he could still see. He couldn't feel the ground beneath him, though he knew he was standing. He felt the air around him. Literally felt it against his skin. The air felt like silk. Like the skin of a woman. Like he could simply fall into it and be safe.

"Where have you been, Dad?"

"Oh, around."

The grin was so familiar that it hurt. A slight pull at the side of his mouth, a curving of the lips, crinkles of skin around dark brown eyes that snapped with secrecy.

"Have you been watching us?"

"Sometimes. You've been busy."

_Why did you say that stuff, Dad? Why did you tell me about Sam and then leave me alone? Why did you—_

"I can't tell you why, Dean."

"You can't?"

"I'm sorry."

"Dad? Hey! Wait, no—Dad!"

The air suddenly heated up around him, scorching him and chilling him at the same time. Arms of safety turned into greedy fingers digging into him. He could see them, like bony black snakes crawling along his chest, across his ribs, digging into his navel and scorching him from the inside. He reached for the fingers, to pull them away, but he suddenly couldn't move his arms, couldn't _feel _his arms.

Throwing his head back once, he growled out his rage in a cry.

"Guurrrhhh!"

"Dean?"

Sam's voice cut through the heat, froze the black. Dean panted, blinking, relishing the feel of actually opening his eyes. _It's morning… _The gray light of dawn drifted over the alcove and revealed the tangled heap of coats piled on top of him.

"Sam?"

Sam was here. Sam was real. Dad was a dream. _Dad was a dream._

"You okay?"

_Am I okay…_ He licked his lips, taking stock. His head felt too big for his body, pounding relentlessly at the cut above his eyebrow, his shoulder throbbed with a teasing ache. His lungs were bruised. And his belly…_God…_The pain across the skin of his belly seared to a white-cold heat.

"Yeah. I'm okay." He turned his head, looking around the edge of the fire. He felt his short hair fan against his brother's chest. _Did I actually sleep on Sam all night?_ "Where's Abe?"

"Went to get food." Sam yawned, making it sound like Abe had just run to the store.

Dean wanted to laugh. He tried to laugh. It came out like a small squeak.

"Think you can help me here?" Sam was saying. Dean felt his brother's large hands against his back, trying to push them gently apart.

_Focus, Dean._

"Help you?"

"Dude, you sound like Bon Scott after a two-hour concert."

Dean had to grin at that. "I'm so using that name next."

"Your clothes are dry," Sam said, and Dean dug his fingers in the sand as Sam scooted out from behind him, drawing his long leg around behind Dean's bare back and kneeling next to him.

"Oh."

"C'mon, Dean. You should get dressed. You'll be warmer."

_That means moving. Moving is not going to be fun. I'm not sure I like moving._

"I'll help you."

Without the strong support of Sam at his back, Dean slouched forward, gritting his teeth against the groan, looking around as he caught his breath. The eastern sky was a brilliant pink, gold climbing the edges of the clouds. The fire still burned bright, warming the alcove they were tucked into.

"Where's Lobo?"

"Dunno," Sam answered, standing stiffly and sliding Abe's shirt from his shoulders. "I woke up and he was gone."

"Maybe he's getting food, too."

Sam reached down for his own shirt and Dean caught a flash of the burn across his forearm.

"Hey," he reached out and grabbed Sam's wrist before he could straighten fully. "When did you take the bandage off?"

"Huh?"

Dean twisted his arm.

"Oh, uh…" Sam frowned. "I don't know… shower maybe?"

"You don't remember?"

Sam shook his head. "It doesn't hurt. I'd almost…well, forgotten about it."

"It doesn't hurt?!" Dean pressed his hand to his own branded skin.

"Not anymore." Sam said, sliding his arms into his long-sleeved shirt and buttoning it swiftly against the chill of the morning.

"Damn, Sammy. Lucky bastard."

"We'll get you some pain killers and medicine for your, uh, burn when we get back," Sam assured him.

"Whatever you say," Dean replied, remembering how Sam had screamed when Bobby pressed the fireplace poker on his arm. Of course, it hadn't truly been _Sam_, but it had been his brother's face screwed up in pain, his brother's voice he'd heard…

"Here—can you pull this on?" Sam asked, handing him his slightly stiff, dry shirt.

Dean grabbed his shirt from Sam. "I've been dressing myself since before you were born."

"Fine." Sam lifted his hands, but he didn't back away. In fact, his eyes never left Dean.

Dean stuffed one arm into the sleeve of his shirt, but as he tried to shift his left arm, sweat broke out across his chest. _Yeah, not gonna happen…_"Uh, Sam?"

"I'm here." Sam's voice was soft, his hands gentle.

With only a minimal amount of struggling and several well punctuated curses, Dean managed to get into his jeans, shirt, and jacket, sand gritting between his fever-sensitive skin and his clothes.

"I'm gonna go take a leak," Sam announced, standing and shrugging into his jacket. He laid Abe's shirt and jacket against the rock for when the older man returned.

Dean frowned. _Dammit._ "Uh, Sam?"

Sam looked down at him. "C'mon," he sighed, bending low to help Dean to his feet. "I gotcha."

www

There was something oddly comforting about being the caretaker when he'd been taken care of his entire life. When Dean was fine—cocky, confident, strong, capable—Sam knew there wouldn't be much asked of him. He knew he'd be free to pursue whatever he wished because Dean was taking care of the details.

But when Dean was down, when he needed help, when he _couldn't_ do everything else, Sam was needed. He wasn't sure if it was healthy to feel good about that, but he didn't dwell on it too long. Dean needed him and that meant that Sam had a purpose… that he had a hope of making up for what he'd done.

When they returned from their trip to the trees, Sam eased Dean down onto a rock near the fire, watching as Dean rolled his neck, carefully worked his stiff shoulder, gingerly rubbed at his bruised forehead.

_Let it go…it wasn't you…I don't blame you…_

Sam tried to match Dean's repeated, vehement words with the hole in his heart. It was like forcing pieces from two different puzzles together. There was a groove and a hook, but no matter how hard he shoved, he couldn't match them up. Something didn't fit.

Abe returned with a rabbit and made quick work of skinning it, cooking it and serving it. Dean ate sparingly, working to swallow, hand over his belly as he licked the grease of the meat from his fingers. Sam made sure he didn't take more than Dean, though he was ravenous. Abe ate quietly, his dark eyes always on them, as if waiting for something.

Sam purposely didn't meet the Ojibwa's eyes. He'd felt caution and wariness from Abe directed at him since they'd begun the search for Dean and he couldn't pinpoint the cause.

They buried the rabbit carcass, rinsed their mouths out with river water, careful not to drink. The last thing they needed was intestinal parasites. Dean had moved as little as possible, and aside from a tightening of his jaw muscle, a quickening of breath, and narrowing of eyes, Sam would never know that there were nasty wounds hidden beneath his denim shirt.

The early morning light had quickly darkened with the drawing of storm clouds, and Sam felt humidity pressing around them. He glanced up, worriedly, at the sky hoping the rain would hold off until they got back to Maggie's. It had only taken them a little over an hour to find Dean, maybe there was a chance…

"Here's how we're going to do this," Abe said, once he'd buried the fire, making sure the coals couldn't ignite another. "See where the incline there meets the river? We start there so we don't have to climb anything."

Sam took a breath. "Dean—"

"I can do it, Sam."

"It's okay to ask for help." Sam glanced at his brother out of the corner of his eyes.

"Thanks for the permission, Sasquatch, but I'm fine." Dean didn't look at him; his eyes were trained ahead, his mind obviously on the task before them.

Sam gritted his teeth. _Stubborn bastard._

They stood, Abe pulling on his shirt and jacket, sliding his knife into its sheath, and slinging his rifle over his shoulder. He led the way, Dean in the middle, Sam bringing up the rear.

"Think Yeats came after us?" Sam wondered aloud, watching Dean closely. His brother walked stiffly, his shoulders held tight, his fingers curled into loose fists.

"Doubt it," Abe replied. "He still had those two… what did you call them?"

"Stooges," Sam supplied. Dean huffed out a quick laugh.

"Right. Them. They didn't follow Sal out of the window," Abe finished.

"Wussies," Dean muttered.

"Yeah, well," Sam replied, reaching out, ready to steady Dean when he stumbled on a rock, his hand against his stomach. "I'm glad they didn't. We didn't exactly escape prepared."

"We escaped," Dean pointed out. "That's what matters….ah! _Shit._"

"You okay?"

"Yes," Dean snapped, continuing forward.

"Fine!" Sam huffed.

"Tell me more about that… Ikea thing."

Sam frowned. "Ikea—oh, you mean the ikiryoh?"

"Yeah."

"I think it's a Japanese spirit or something. I didn't get much else—really need to go look into it more."

"A Japanese spirit… in _Minnesota_?" Abe asked, turning to look over his shoulder.

Sam shrugged. "I'm guessing it has to be summoned. Or called or something like that. Maybe it was summoned by a Japanese person."

"A Japanese…witch?" Abe hedged.

"Maybe."

"Hey, Sam," Dean panted.

Sam reached out for him, but stopped when Dean paused to catch his breath.

"Yeah?"

"You remember that Death Spirit in Texas?"

Sam winced. He remembered driving across flat, treeless roads, finding the motel, pulling up facts on the hunt, feeling hungry, and then the strobe light of his memory blinked on and the nightmare took over until clarity returned with pain on the floor of Bobby's house.

"Sorta…"

"I'm thinking," Dean licked dry lips, hand pressed to his middle. "I'm thinking we might've been on the wrong track."

Sam frowned, looking up at Abe, then back at Dean. "Wrong track?"

"Don't think it was a Death Spirit."

"Why?"

"Abe was in Texas."

"Yeah, so?"

Dean rolled his eyes, closing them on a sigh. Sam bit his lip. _What am I missing?_

"I think that," Dean swallowed, waving his hand loosely in the air. "This thing was there. Whatever it is."

Abe grunted, shaking his head, an expression of wonder spreading across his craggy features.

"What?" Sam asked him.

"Fate has a way of creating intersections where we strive to build parallel paths."

Dean and Sam shared a glance.

"Okay, Obi-Wan, you wanna repeat that in English?" Dean asked, moving forward once more as thunder rumbled low in the distance.

"I don't think it was an accident that we found each other at the _Hideout_."

"Yeah, well, I don't believe in fate," Dean grumbled, then swore loudly as he stumbled once more. "Son of a _bitch_!"

"Hey, take it easy, Dean."

"_You_ take it easy, Sam." Dean pressed the heel of his left hand to his forehead and Sam saw the tremble of his jaw line. He was pale, and Sam could see his fingers shaking.

_He's scared._ Being in pain meant being out of control. Being out of control was next to hell for Dean. Sam pulled his lips tight against his teeth. He knew Dean would skitter away if he tried to touch him right now. He thought for a moment, then began to hum as they walked.

After two bars Dean paused, looking at him. "Dude," he said in a gasp, turning, his hand pressed across his belly. "Are you… singing… _Highway to Hell_?"

Sam just grinned and in his off-tune cadence started to sing. "Living easy, loving free, season ticket on a one way ride…"

Dean shook his head and turned away, continuing after Abe. After a moment, Sam heard his brother's voice, halted with pain and effort, but still tuned to the melody of the song.

"Asking nothing, leave me be, taking everything in my stride…"

Sam stepped up beside him when Dean stumbled again, this time nearly going to his knees. Stooping slightly to account for their four-inch height difference, Sam slid Dean's arm across his shoulders, ignoring the instinctive way Dean held himself away from him.

"Don't need reason," Sam started again, ticking his head toward Dean. "Don't need rhyme…

Dean gave in, leaned on his brother, and moved forward with a breathy, "Ain't nothin' I would rather do, going down, party time, my friends are gonna be there too…"

The beat of the song set the pace of their footsteps, guiding them forward, keeping them moving. Sam almost laughed out loud when Abe's tenor joined them.

"I'm on a highway to hell, on the highway to hell, highway to hell, I'm on the highway to hell…"

www

With an impressive crash of electrified air and earth-trembling thunder, it began to rain.

_I'm never going to be dry again._

They continued to walk, no shelter to be had, across terrain that Dean was certain had been built specifically to cause him pain. After the first minute of the downpour, Dean was vocally cursing everyone and everything except Sam, and he was close to cursing his brother because he was too freakin' tall. Every forward step pulled at Dean's wound and it was all he could do to grip the material of Sam's jacket and keep his brother close.

"I hate rain." Dean muttered.

Minutes passed.

"I hate water, period."

Left, right, left right, stumble.

"_Fuck_."

"Easy, Dean," Sam said, water dripping from his lips and running down his face to fall from his chin in a steady beat.

"Quit telling me to take it easy! I'm not friggin' _four_," Dean snapped. "We're supposed to be…aw, _dammit_… we're supposed to be at a safe house, Sam. Not falling into rivers and friggin' _camping_ in the middle of nowhere—"

"Yeah, I wondered when you'd bring that up," Sam muttered.

"I hate camping," Dean muttered, shivering as the rain soaked through his clothes, making the ache in his bones more prominent, causing the pain to twist harshly across his belly.

"I know you do."

Left, right, left, right. Time passed. Time ceased to exist. Time was nothing. There was only pain and water and Sam.

"We're close," Abe announced.

_You got Spidey sense now, too?_ Dean thought grumpily. He was tired of hurting, tired of struggling. Tired of being tired.

"You ever just want to hide, Sam?" he asked suddenly, expecting Sam to respond with surprise, shock, remorse.

"Yeah," Sam sighed, his voice soft and honest. "Yeah, I do."

"We can't though, can we?"

"Don't think so."

"That sucks out loud."

"You can say that again."

_God_ he hurt. The pain spiked from his belly suddenly and he gasped. He felt the ground sway under him, and knew that Sam's arms were the only thing that kept him upright.

_Think of something else, focus on something else…_

_Impala's engine…intake manifold, carburetor, battery_… Rain ran into his eyes and he blinked it away, shaking it free from his lips. _Song's on Metallica's S&M album…Master of Puppets, The Thing That Should Not Be, No Leaf Clover, Hero of the Day, Nothing Else Matters…_ Sam shifted his arm and Dean felt his brother's eyes on his face. _The hunt, the job…dead hunter, dead '92 grads, belladonna poisoning or…_

"When… we get back, we need to find what stops a…" Dean paused, trying to find the word.

"Ikiryoh." Sam supplied.

"Yeah. That."

"I know we do. I know right where to search."

"Swell," Dean whispered. _How close is close, Abe? 'Cause, seriously…_

"There's the safe house."

_It's about friggin' time_.

He wanted a bed, a bath, and a beer. Not necessarily in that order. _And aspirin. And coffee. And then some more aspirin._ The sand trapped in his clothes from the river irritated his skin even through the soaking deluge of the rain. He shivered and felt his sore muscles protest.

The rain splashed in through the broken window into the safe house. Sam slipped out from under Dean's arm, leaving him propped against the side of the building, and peered into the window.

"Looks empty," he shouted back over the downpour. "Think most of our stuff's still there."

"Fantastic," Dean called back. "Any reason we're still standing out here?"

"Let's get into the bar." Abe waved them forward. "Get you some help."

"I'm good with that," Dean nodded, keeping his right shoulder against the side of the brick house and moving around the building. He saw the Impala tucked into the cluster of trees where he'd left her. _God, baby, you look so good._

Sam's fingers wrapped around his upper arm, leading him down the slight incline and around to the front of the bar. As they approached the door, Dean frowned.

"You hear that?"

"Music?" Sam looked over at him.

Over the steady beat of rain against the blacktop and dirt, he heard the ear-splitting cry of rock and roll angst.

"You think she opened up?" Dean asked, doubtfully.

"No cars," Abe shook his head, worry aging his face. He stepped up to the door and tried the handle. The music spiked.

_"Crawling in my skin, these wounds they will not heal, fear is how I fall, confusing what is real…"_

Abe stumbled back. "It's locked."

"Try again," Sam stepped closer, releasing his hold on Dean's arm.

Abe rammed his shoulder against the door, turning the handle again and again.

"Sam," Dean grabbed his brother's attention. "It's in there."

"Oh, shit."

"What?" Abe looked wildly over at them.

"Just like before," Dean said to Abe. "Remember? Yeats couldn't get in when the jukebox was—"

"Oh, damn," Abe looked back at the door. Taking a step back, he heaved a mighty kick against the wood. It didn't give.

"Let me try," Sam offered, pushing Abe aside. Just as he slammed his foot against the door, the music ceased and Sam tumbled inside. He caught himself on one of the bar stools and straightened just as Dean and Abe stepped across the threshold, closing off the rain behind them, ready to call out.

The sight that met their eyes shocked them into silence. The room looked like ground zero after an explosion. The blue and red glass in the overhead lights was broken out and scattered across the floor. The large mirror behind the liquor display was cracked in three places, sending distorted reflections of light around the room. Blood was splattered across the bar and jukebox and the scent of gunpowder drifted heavy in the air.

Abe pushed past Sam. "Yeats! Maggie!"

Dean stepped up next to his brother, his pain momentarily forgotten in the wake of the destruction before him.

"Maggie!" Sam echoed Abe, moving away from Dean and around the other end of the bar from Abe. "Yea—"

Dean looked over at Sam's abbreviated cry as thunder rolled through the thick rain outside. "What? What is it?"

"A body." Sam's voice was thin.

"Maggie's?" Dean felt cold.

"No."

"Well, who?"

Before Sam could answer, lightening crashed across the sky in a deafening roar and the lights inside the _Hideout_ blinked out leaving them standing, separated, in darkness.

* * *

a/n: Special thanks to **Ojibwegurl** who was kind enough to help me find Abe's Indian name, _Migizi_ or _Eagle_.

Playlist:

_Highway to Hell_ by AC/DC

_Crawling_ by Linkin Park


	4. Appear

**Disclaimer/Spoilers**: See Chapter 1

a/n: I really wanted to post a chapter a week, but RL has mocked my intentions with loud, throaty laughter. And… I think there may have been pointing. I promise you, though, I am caught up in this story and will not let more than two weeks lag between posts. I hope you stay with me.

Thank you for all your fantastic comments. I promise I will reply to each of you if I haven't already.

Kelly -- you're the best. I mean that.

* * *

_"Though the winds of change may blow around you, but that will always be so  
When love is pain it can devour you, but you are never alone."_

_-- Led Zeppelin, "In the Light"_

_"Any chance you've heard from him? I swear it's like looking for my dad all over again. I'm losing my mind here…"_

www

It was ravenous.

Hunger like tentacles of need drove it forward, searching, tasting touching, devouring. It fed on pain, on hate, on darkness. And there was so much to be had. It could _smell_ it. Sense despair all around.

It was giddy.

Climbing inside the host and curling up in the pain had never felt so rich, so fulfilling. It drank deeply, greedily, wanting more, taking. It felt the desperate panic of the host clawing with searching fingers, working to stop the overwhelming madness, the abyss that surrounded without remorse. It consumed, playing chess with the memories buried deep, rooks defeating queens, pawns checking kings, chasing sanity with licks of heated desperation.

Then suddenly, with a scream of psychotic sorrow, the host reached a breaking point, releasing a jolt of power unlike anything the being had ever experienced.

It was free.

www

Dean forgot that it was actually day time.

The bar had two windows flanking the door. Narrow windows, covered by neon signs proclaiming the beer on tap within. The staccato burst of light from the raging storm outside did little to illuminate the room. Lightning acted like a hesitant strobe, teasing up images that were both familiar and frightening.

"Dean?" Sam's whisper was that of a lost child.

"I'm here."

"Where's here?"

The darkness was almost palpable. Dean held his right hand up in front of his face, wiggling his fingers. _Nothing._ It was as if he'd been struck blind.

"To, uh…to your left." Dean felt his heart hammering at the base of his throat, felt the heat from his cauterized wound radiating through his torso and down into his legs, turning them to rubber. He reached out, searching for something to brace himself on as a tremor worked its way through his body, and found only air.

"Okay, stay there," Sam whispered again. "I'm coming to you."

"Why are you whispering?"

"Oh." Sam's voice returned to normal. "I dunno."

"Sam."

Dean heard a dull thud and the scrape of wooden legs against the floor.

"Damn. _What_?"

"The body?" Dean prompted.

"It's Jones."

"Who?"

"One of Sal's buddies."

"Not Yeats?"

"No, it's Jones," Sam said with certainty.

_They didn't follow him out of the window…_ Abe's words came back to Dean.

"How did he—"

"I don't know," Sam interrupted, and Dean heard him inching closer in the dark. "But there is a helluva lot of blood." His voice shook slightly.

"Where the hell are Maggie and—"

The sudden, capricious cackle caught Dean off guard and he flinched violently, pressing a hand to his wounded belly.

"What the _hell_?"

The cackle turned into a giggle of child-like glee. It filled the room, bounced from left to right, then settled directly in front of Dean. The laugh escalated, spiking to a frenetic screech before stopping abruptly. Dean took a step back, keeping his hand pressed protectively against his middle. His skin felt thin, transparent, heat radiating through him and causing his shirt and jeans to stick uncomfortably against him.

"Sam?" He whispered.

"I can't find you." Sam's worried voice came at him from the opposite direction.

"Abe?"

Dean listened in the oddly pulsing silence for the Indian's reassuring rumble. He heard only a gasp, a shuffle of feet, and the cock of the rifle Abe had carried with him into the bar.

Dean took another step back. The air around him grew quickly cold, making him shiver in his rain-soaked clothes. Lightning slammed through the dark and in the first quick flash of light, Dean saw the small, pale face of a child, a shock of black hair dusting the forehead, and two tar-black eyes staring up at him with cold heat, not two feet away. In the second flash, Dean saw the being's small mouth curl into an empty smile and his heart rolled over in his chest, turning to ice in the process.

_Oh, shit…_

"Mine."

The voice was like a croak of static on the radio. And it was in his mind. He heard it like the memory of a dream.

Dean felt fingers, cold and brittle with the paper-thin skin of the dead, trace a line down his forehead and he pulled back, hitting the door with the back of his head. Surprised, he shoved his hands behind him, gripping the worn wood with his fingertips.

A buzzing sound like a bee trapped against the glass of a window began to fill the room. The frenetic noise carried with it an anxiety that pulsed through the empty space formerly occupied by air.

"_Mine_."

This time it was a harsh, hag-like whisper and Dean could smell blood on what passed as the creature's breath. He couldn't tell if the word was audible to the others in the room, but the insistent throbbing static would have drowned it out regardless.

The fingers skimmed his lips, skipped over his throat as he pressed his head, hard, against the door, trying to get away, unable to move. He felt the small hand spread wide across his sternum, fingertips digging in through his shirt. In the flash of a heartbeat, he knew what the creature intended, knew what the fingers were seeking.

"Like hell," he growled, trying to open his eyes wider, hoping to see, unable to pull further away.

"_Mine._"

The possessive whisper shot a flash of heated anger through him and he grit his teeth as the fingers tried to dig deeper. His heart stuttered. His spirit shook. It was an invasion, a take-over. The searching fingers mocked his resistance and Dean slid shaking hands to his pockets, hoping desperately for a weapon, something to stop this rape of his soul.

_You can't have me._

Abbreviated images slid through the dark. It took him a confused moment to realize that he wasn't seeing the bar; he was seeing his own past. Nothing was clear, images were cloudy, half visible, barely there, but he saw fire, and tears. He heard screaming and sobs. He felt the distinct sensation of weapons and flesh weighing him down. He felt desolation claw at him with a tentative, curious touch.

Dean shoved his trembling fingers into his jeans pockets and found them despairingly empty save the small round charm miraculously still tucked deep into the folds of cotton. His fingers grasped it like a life line and he arched against the door as he felt the small, tenacious fingers push deeper.

Then suddenly, everything stopped. The growl of frustration from the creature curled Dean's lips into a satisfied snarl.

_Can't… have me…_

The small, brittle hand dropped and Dean pulled in a shuddering breath.

"Dean. Get down."

The words were barked with the authority of his father. But it wasn't John Winchester's voice that caused his knees to instantly obey, his legs collapsing beneath him, compelling him to drop to the floor of the bar. It wasn't even Sam's.

"_Nagazh_!"

It was Abe's.

Dean heard the creature hiss, felt the fingers brush across his cheek, leaving a sensation of burning ice in their wake, and resisted the urge to reach out and push it away, afraid to voluntarily touch it. A fine dusting of something scattered across his hands and he heard the particles hit the floor in the near silence.

_Salt… Atta boy, Abe._

"_Nagazh!_"

In the next moment, Dean felt his skin crawl with the realization that the creature was moving over him—traveling up the wall. Twisting his head around in the black, he heard what sounded like dry corn husks scraping across wood. Lightning flashed once more, drawing Dean's eyes up and he saw a pair of pale legs skittering along the ceiling from the main bar into the shadows of the adjoining room.

"You okay?" Abe called from across the room.

"Dean?" Sam's voice undulated as his brother turned circles in the dark.

"It's not gone," Dean rasped, the chill of the room shaking him once more with vengeance. "It's in there. In the other room."

"I know," Abe answered.

"What _is_ it?" Sam exclaimed, his voice nearer to Dean now. "What was it doing? I heard you…It sounded like it…"

Dean reached out a hand in the direction of his brother's voice, waving in the black, finding only empty space until at last his finger tips closed over the cloth of Sam's wet jeans.

"Jesus!" Sam jerked, almost causing Dean's fingers to lose their grip.

"Sorry," Dean said, tugging Sam closer.

"Scared the shit outta me." Sam knelt next to Dean. "You okay? Did you see it?"

"Help me up," Dean commanded. "Gotta find a flashlight or a candle or something."

"Dean, the body—" Sam's voice thinned out.

"In a minute." Dean cut him off. He didn't want to think about dealing with a dead hustler until Sam was safe. Until that… thing was gone. "We got some freaky-assed… dead_ thing_ climbing around on the ceiling."

"Right, okay." Sam's long fingers wrapped around Dean's arm, lifting him to his feet. "Got any idea what we do about that?"

"Yeah, sure," Dean tried, then balanced himself as Sam released his arm. "Okay, no."

"Salt sent it away from you," Abe reminded them, his voice materializing from nothing.

Dean felt Sam share his jolt of surprise as they both gasped at Abe's sudden closeness.

"Should tie a friggin' bell around your neck," Dean hissed in the direction Abe's voice came from. "What'd you say to it anyway?"

"I told it to leave." Abe's voice held a shrug. "I didn't know what else to say."

The empty, childlike laugh teased them from the adjoining room. The frantic buzzing kicked up a notch, compelling Dean to shake his head as if the motion would rid his ears of the cloying, claustrophobic sound.

"_Mine_." The voice was like wrinkled paper, echoing hollowly in his head.

"Selfish little bastard," Dean growled. Mentally shaking himself he addressed the seemingly empty space in front of him where black ate black. He knew his brother and friend were there, but the inky darkness camouflaged them completely. "Salt scared it away from me, but it's not gone. Got any idea where Maggie keeps the flashlights?"

A low roll of thunder began. The power of the air masses colliding shook the windows and vibrated the wood floor beneath their feet. Dean felt his stomach tighten as he waited for the crash of lightning that was sure to follow. When nothing happened, he reached his hand toward where he'd last heard Sam's voice and was surprised to feel his brother reaching back.

Their forearms bumped and hesitated, both frank in their need for the reassurance of each other's presence, both embarrassed by the confession of movement. Dean dropped his arm first. As he ran his chilled fingers along the damp seam of his jeans, the lights of the bar hummed and flickered, struggling to life as the storm faded to the east.

Light changed everything. The bar still looked like a battleground; blood was still splattered everywhere, broken glass littered the floor, but light allowed for the possibility of success where darkness siphoned hope.

Sam's hesitant fingers plucked at Dean's sleeve. "You okay?"

"I will be when we figure out what that thing is…and how to kill it."

"What did it, um…" Sam frowned, still holding Dean's sleeve between is index finger and thumb, as if reluctant to relinquish even that tenuous tether. "What was it doing to you?"

Dean swallowed. "I think it was…uh, trying to…get inside."

"Inside…what?"

"Me."

"Possess you?" Sam whispered, barely audible over the constant hum.

Dean heard the horror in his brothers voice, and the sick realization that Sam knew what that felt like made him temper his answer. "Maybe."

The three men shared a glance as a hiss of anger sounded from the adjoining room. The buzz suddenly stopped, the ensuing silence louder than Dean thought possible. The light nearest them, hanging over the bar devoid of its protective stained-glass covering, suddenly brightened. Without further warning, the bulb exploded, showering Abe with tiny particles of glass.

Dean reached for Abe, instinctively pulling the man toward him, trying to shove him behind him next to Sam. Abe resisted, looking with dangerous eyes toward the pool room. Dean saw that he held an opened salt shaker in his hand. Another bulb burst, further dimming the light in the bar.

Without warning, the jukebox began to scream. No music, no static, just a deafening, terrified scream. The three men jerked away, ducking their heads. Dean covered his ears, jumping a second time when two quick blasts from Abe's rifle silenced the scream, obliterating the jukebox in a smoky, sparking mess.

"I never did like that music maker," Abe grumbled.

Dean dropped his hands, straightening slowly as he looked at Abe, a baffled, congratulatory laugh tumbling from his full lips.

"Not enough Zeppelin in the mix," Dean chuckled a little maniacally.

Chaos held sway over normalcy and he was caught up in the ride. Abe kept his eyes on the husk of electronics that once held the symphonic voice of their mystery guest, nodding in agreement with Dean.

A small fire sparked up from the back of the machine, and Abe set down his rifle, stripped off his coat, and beat it against the flames until only smoke remained.

Dean felt time slipping past them. They didn't know where Maggie or Yeats were. The thing that had tried to crawl into his chest was lurking in the other room waiting for God knew what. And there was a dead body behind the bar. He looked at Sam, tipping his head at the salt shaker in Abe's hand, then glanced up at the bar. Sam nodded and moved over to grab a couple of the salt shakers from the top of the bar, twisting off the lids and handing one to Dean.

"There is a door," Abe said softly, nodding toward the pool table. "I could go outside…come around the back…"

"Crossfire?" Dean guessed.

Abe nodded. He looked back over his shoulder at Dean. "We may not be able to stop it, but we can buy ourselves some time."

"To figure out what the hell it is," Sam agreed, finishing Abe's thought.

"Stay with your brother," Abe said, unaware of how his words jarred through Dean.

_Watch out for Sammy… shoot first ask questions later… take your brother outside as fast as you can…_

"Wait," Dean reached out. "How will we know when you're coming in?"

"Listen for the wolf," Abe said cryptically.

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Dean nodded as Abe slung his rifle strap over his shoulder, stepping between the brothers, and quickly exited the bar. They were alone. With the…dead thing.

_Good,_ Dean thought. _Less to protect is less to lose._

"You got a weapon?" Dean looked at his brother, feeling naked with only a salt shaker gripped in his hand. He tapped the fingers of his empty hand against his leg.

"Why does it keep saying that?" Sam suddenly spat. Dean looked at him out of the corners of his eyes. Sam's hand was clenched around the shaker in fist, his upper lip bouncing with barely contained disgust.

"What?" Dean asked, knowing only what he'd heard.

"It keeps…laughing and saying _soon_." Sam jerked his eyes to Dean, his fingers flying up to his temple as if in an effort to block out the sound. "You don't _hear_ that?"

He'd heard something else. He'd heard ownership. He'd heard _now_. No way was he going to let it get Sam _soon_.

"Screw it," Dean whispered fiercely. "Focus. We need a weapon, Sam."

"I…I don't have anything."

_Shit…_ Dean shot his eyes around the destroyed bar, flinching as another light popped, leaving them with two overhead lights and the neon glow of the beer signs. Dean closed his eyes, trying to focus, trying to think. The dull throb in his head, the ache in his shoulder, and the insistent, searing pain across the skin of his belly vied for his attention.

_Weapon…I need a weapon… _

He opened his eyes, looking at Sam. His brother was looking back with clear eyes.

"The body," they whispered in unison.

Sam turned and moved around the edge of the bar quickly. Dean followed at a slower pace, his chilled bones stiffening up during their time inside. When he rounded the corner of the bar, he brought his chin up in automatic reaction to the sight of the body before him.

The features on what was left of the face were frozen in terror, paths like fingernail gouges separating the skin in eight even tracks. The chest was a gory mess, ribs exposed, flesh stripped aside, internal organs splayed across the belly and legs, blood painting the floor and lower walls a deep crimson.

"The _fuck_?" Dean's whisper was laced with disbelief.

The second to last light bulb brightened momentarily, then exploded.

"It…" Sam had the back of his hand pressed against his mouth. "It looks like something…exploded out of his chest."

"What, like in _Alien_?"

Sam nodded, pushing the mangled body over onto its side. He pulled a pistol from the waistband, showing it to Dean.

"You keep it," Dean said. "Gimme the salt."

"You're the better shot," Sam said.

Dean raised an eyebrow. "True," he allowed. "But—"

"Take it, Dean." Sam, crouched low on the ground beside the body, lifted the pistol up to him in a two-fingered grip, held by the butt.

_You hate me that much? You think you can kill your own brother?_

"Wh-what?" Dean stuttered, blinking. His ears were ringing.

"I said take it," Sam repeated.

Dean heard the last light blub begin to hum as it burned through its death throes. His stomach punched a hard throb of pain, stealing his breath.

"Dean?"

_Are you that desperate for his approval?_

"This isn't you talking, Sam," Dean breathed, his eyes fluttering closed as he fell into the hazy memory. He felt his knees buckle and had it not been for Sam's quick catch, he would have fallen face-first into the gore of Jones' body.

"Whoa!" Sam breathed as the last light bulb exploded, leaving them with a dim illumination of the Budweiser, Coors Light, and Heineken neon signs as the gray light of day struggled for survival midst the storm clouds outside.

Sam knelt in front of him, gripping his upper arms with large, iron-like fingers, his brows pulled together in worry, his hazel eyes searching. "Dean, what's going on, man?"

Dean blinked, trying to pull himself back, trying to bring reality around. "Real bullets…" he muttered, shaking his head once.

"What?" Sam asked, his brows knotted in confusion. He ducked his head, trying to catch Dean's eyes.

_Real bullets worked a helluva lot better than rocksalt,_ Dean thought, reaching up to grip his throbbing shoulder.

"Nothing, Sam," he rolled his shoulders out of Sam's grip, sitting back on his heels. "Nothing. I'm okay."

"You sure?" Sam asked. "You're awfully pale."

Dean pulled back, steadier as the memory faded and reality returned. "Well, damn," he snapped. "Guess I wasted that hundred bucks at the spa then."

Sam studied him a moment more, then picked the pistol up from the pool of blood, grimacing and wiping the sticky crimson mess on Jones' pant legs. A stuttering, staccato yip, followed by a mournful howl echoed quietly outside. Dean's head snapped up.

"That's Abe," he said.

He reached up, grabbing the edge of the bar, and pulling himself to his feet, coming face-to-face with the pale visage and tar-black eyes of the being. Before Dean could jerk back, it hissed, launching itself at him, latching on like a monkey, legs around his waist, arms at his neck, face descending toward his.

"Dean!" Sam barked, jerking the hammer back on the gun and stumbling to his feet, thrusting his hand behind him to catch his weight before he slammed against the scattered liquor bottles as he slid in the blood pool.

"Son of a—" Dean pushed at the slight, powerful body, slipping on the blood, sliding into Sam, feeling his brother's arms instinctively gripping him from behind. "Shoot! Shoot it!" Dean twisted his head away as the stench of rot and gore wafted over him from the creature's mouth.

"Where?!" Sam gripped Dean, moving them back away from Jones' corpse toward the other side of the bar.

Dean worked a hand between himself and the burned-paper skin of the body latched onto him and pushed, groaning as the small fingers dug harshly into the back of his neck.

"Head…arms…chest… pick a feature, Sam!"

Pushing against the thrust in front of him, falling into the pull behind him, Dean felt the spin of the world. He wanted this fucking thing _off_ him, away from Sam. Curling his fingers into claws, he snaked his hand up to the small, child-like face before him, and began to shove his fingertips into the gaping eye sockets inches from his own.

The creature released him on a breath of fetid air, launching up from his chest to the wall and scrambling once again along the ceiling with a static-like laugh.

Dean gasped, unbalanced, falling back into Sam, who wasn't braced. The gun went off, bullet ricocheting into the Heineken sign across the room, killing it with a burst of sparks, and the brothers fell through the doorway that led to the kitchen, tumbling in a pile of arms, legs, and groans on the kitchen floor.

"S_hit_…" Dean gasped, curling his arms around his wounded middle, unable to do more than drag in shuddering gasps of air.

Sam's pants for breath echoed his own, and they lay still for a moment, unable to roll apart in the wake of their struggle. Carefully, Sam pulled his arms from beneath Dean, rolling his brother away from him, and pushed himself to his knees.

"Dean?"

_Not yet… not yet…_

"Dean, you okay?"

"Fine."

"Promise?"

"I'll live, Sam."

Dean opened his eyes, pulling every last drop of waning strength still humming through his battered body and let it hover in his gaze, let it persuade Sam to step away. The heat that filled him, the ache that threatened to consume, the tremble that rattled his teeth were all nothing in the wake of the need to convince Sam that he was okay. He could still fight. He was still _here_.

Sam nodded, looking doubtful, as if he could read something in Dean's eyes that Dean wasn't sure he'd allowed to lurk there. He pushed himself to his feet and reached for a shelf laden with canned food and boxes of beer bottles.

"What are you doing?" Dean breathed, trying in vain to push himself to his knees.

His clothes felt crispy against his skin, his stomach burned. On the other side of the door, they could hear the obvious sounds of a struggle, the crash of something against glass.

"Blocking the door."

"Abe's still out there, Sam."

"I'm not letting that thing in at you again," Sam declared.

Dean gained his knees and felt his jaw tighten. Without warning, the memory of Sam's head whipping around with unnatural speed, of his brother's soulful hazel eyes being replaced with inky black orbs that had seen Hell shot across his vision. He bit back a gasp.

"Sam, no," Dean breathed, reaching with a trembling hand for the nearest countertop and gripping it tightly, pulling himself to his feet, one arm wrapped around his middle.

"Dean," Sam snapped, turning, his eyes, blessedly, normal. "We don't know what the hell this thing is—"

"Abe's out there!" Dean repeated, his protest stronger.

"I don't care!" Sam bellowed.

"I do!" Dean yelled in return.

"I'm getting you out of here," Sam gripped the shelf and began to push.

"We're _not_ leaving him!" Dean growled dangerously, stepping toward his brother, his entire body clenched against pain and with anger.

"He's dead already," came a defeated, fear-laden voice from the shadows.

The brothers froze, Sam's hands on the shelf, Dean reaching for Sam's arm. In unison they turned in the direction of the voice.

Parting the darkness with a sigh, Yeats stepped forward. Gripped in his hand was a sawed-off shotgun.

"Yeats?" Dean breathed, dropping his outstretched hand and turning to face the weathered bouncer. He unsuccessfully tried to hide the wince that the movement shot through him.

"We're all dead." Yeats' voice was a dull echo of his former bravado. "That thing is going to kill us all."

www

"Yeats?" Sam stepped away from the shelf. "You know what this thing is?"

Yeats simply stared at a point on the floor between them, his eyes glinting, his lined face blank.

"Yeats," Dean tried, his voice rough. Sam looked over, worried. Dean's arm was wrapped tight around his middle and Sam could see a fine sheen of sweat along his brother's jaw line in the strobe of the kitchen's fading light. "Yeats, where's Maggie?"

"Dead."

"What?" Sam gasped, blinking. "You're sure?"

Yeats slid his raw eyes to meet Sam's, finally seeming to come back to himself. "N-no," he shook his head. "But how could she… how could…"

Pain exploded behind Sam's eyes without warning. He cried out, tipping forward, felt his knees crash against the floor, felt a hand grip his arm as he pressed his fingers tight into his eyes. Dizziness followed the slam of pain, nausea rolling through him like a wave, sending him forward.

_Soon._

"What—gah!" Sam cried out again as the pain threatened to push his eyes from his head.

"Sam!"

Dean's voice cut through the suffocating black, commanding attention. He felt his brother's hands gripping his arms, pulling him up closer. He felt Dean's calloused fingers on his face skipping quickly over the stubble that had grown along his cheek. He allowed Dean to tip his chin up, but he couldn't yet open his eyes.

"Sammy," Dean pleaded. "Take easy, take it easy, I gotcha, it's okay, I gotcha."

"B-black," Sam managed.

"It's black?"

Mentally, Sam nodded, but the pain was too great. If he did more than pinch the bridge of his nose, he was certain his head would fall from his shoulders and roll across the room.

"C-can't see anything… it's just… just black."

"This happened before, Sam," Dean said, his voice solid, strong. "Remember?"

"Yeah."

"And you felt me, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I'm here, little brother, okay? I gotcha."

_Soon._

And the pain was gone. Sam fell forward, his chin on Dean's right shoulder, his arms limp at his sides, his chest pressed against Dean's. He felt Dean's arms tighten around him convulsively, not quite a hug, but not a release either.

"Sam?"

"It's… it's gone. It's over."

"Over?"

Sam felt Dean's jaw move against his ear as he brother spoke. Taking a breath, he pushed away, Dean's hands loosening and sliding along his back to his shoulders, as if unwilling yet to let go.

"I'm okay now," Sam nodded. "I'm okay," he repeated, then softer, "helluva non-vision, though," and sank back to his haunches, making him eye-level with Dean's belly. "Dean! You're bleeding again!"

"Huh?" Dean dropped his worried eyes from his scan of Sam's face to his middle. "Crap."

"What happened to you?" Yeats finally spoke up, having said nothing during Sam's vision.

Sam scrambled to his knees just as the door behind Dean that led to the bar swung open and Abe staggered in, pale, blood trailing from a cut above his eyebrow, eyes dangerous.

"Abe," Sam breathed.

Dean twisted to look, then cried out at the movement, clapping his hand over his bloody middle.

"It left," Abe breathed.

"Left?" Yeats asked, moving toward Abe with the stagger of a drunken man.

"The sun… hit it and it… it left," Abe explained. "Don't think it's really gone, though."

"No," Sam shook his head, rubbing at his temple. He could still feel the weight of the black in his vision, the weight of failure and sorrow. "No, it's not gone."

Abe moved past Yeats, sparing him a glance that Sam couldn't read, then crouched down next to Sam in front of Dean. "You two okay?"

"He's bleeding."

"I'm fine."

"Dean," Sam exclaimed, "you are so far from fine—"

"I'm _okay_, Sam! I know the line, all right? I won't cross it."

Sam shoved a hand through his hair, sputtering. "Won't cross it?! Are you… dude, you crossed the line so long ago…the line is a _dot_ to you!"

Dean ignored him, looking at Abe. "It got you."

Abe shook his head. "_I_ got me," he said. "Slipped in something and cracked my head on the whiskey shelf."

"Blood," Sam guessed. "You slipped in Jones' blood."

Abe nodded, looking over his shoulder at Yeats. "What happened here? Where's Maggie?"

Sam and Dean lifted their eyes to the bouncer, watching as he slowly released his death grip on the shotgun, lowering the barrels to the floor, and leaned heavily against the wall. A large, scarred hand brushed across the wiry, white eyebrows, then smoothed the wide mustache, pulling at his bottom lip.

"I caught those two in the safe house," Yeats began, his voice trembling. "Brought them back to the bar at gun point. Grabbed the phone to call Maggie and… the music started up. Lloyd flipped out, tried to get out of the door, but it wouldn't open. I… I put the gun on him and I saw this… I don't know what it was…"

"A kid," Dean supplied. "A pale…dead kid."

Sam looked over at his brother, saw the shiver trickle through him. As Yeats talked, he cast about, found a clean, folded towel on a shelf beneath the sink, grabbed it and leaned close to Dean, lifting his T-shirt. Dean didn't look down, but allowed Sam access to his belly, tightening the muscles there when Sam pressed the towel against the wound seeping through the make-shift bandage.

Yeats nodded. "Yeah… yeah, that's kinda what it looked like. But I only saw it from the corner of my eyes. I turned to look at it and it was gone. And then Jones—" Yeats paused, swallowed, cleared his throat and stood up straighter, visibly pulling himself together.

Sam blinked, seeing the Marine Yeats once had been ghosting over the broken man before his eyes.

"Jones kinda…gasped like he'd been shot and then he…jerked and started to back away, into the corner, babbling all kinds of nonsense. Couldn't make much of it out, but whatever he was saying, he was scared shitless. The music stopped and Lloyd, uh, he turned to try to help Jones and Jones, he… he broke a bottle over Lloyd's head. Can't believe he didn't kill the mother."

Yeats pushed away from the wall and began to pace, his voice growing steadier as he recounted the nightmare he'd lived through while they'd rescued Dean.

"Lloyd blasted out of here like the Devil himself was after him…and for all I know, he was, 'cause… I started…I _saw_ things."

"From your past," Abe supplied.

Yeats nodded.

"So did I."

"You did?" Dean and Sam exclaimed in unison, eyes flying to meet the Indian's serious, sad face.

Abe nodded. "I saw the loss of my father. The woman that was to be my wife. I saw them as though they were happening again. Now."

"Yeah," Yeats nodded. "Yeah, like that."

"What happened to Jones?" Sam asked, surreptitiously reaching out a hand for Dean's shoulder and carefully pushing his brother back to his rear, feeling Dean relax under his hand.

"He," Yeats flopped his hands away from his sides in a purely helpless gesture. "He went batshit-crazy, man. He started to claw at his face, his neck. I reached for him, tried to hold him, but he was _strong_. He started to… convulse and scream and… _Christ_, this went on for hours… all over the bar…"

Yeats lifted his eyes to the group staring at him in various seated positions and Sam knew he'd never seen eyes as devastated as the ones staring at him now.

"I couldn't stop him. I couldn't leave him. I didn't want to call the police because, hell, I didn't know what we were dealing with. I've been to battle," Yeats continued, his tone devoid of emotion. "I've seen men choke to death on blood and vomit. I've seen men blown in half and somehow live for hours afterwards. I've lifted a man onto a stretcher and felt his burned skin peel away from his fuckin' legs, but I've _never_ seen anything like what happened to that boy."

Sam swallowed, sinking down to sit next to Dean. His hand slid away from Dean's shoulder.

He threw me back and…and then he just…tore his chest apart with his own hands…" Yeats literally shuddered, his hand coming to his mouth, "when he finally stopped struggling… I shit you not, that _thing_ crawled out of him."

"_Alien_." Dean glanced at Sam, eyebrows up in a _told you so_ look.

Sam frowned at him.

"It didn't come after you in here?" Abe asked.

Yeats looked at the door, then shook his head. "You guys came in pretty soon after that."

"Why did you say Maggie was dead?" Sam asked, looking over at Dean when he felt his brother shift, then back at Yeats.

Yeats rubbed his mouth. "I didn't see where that…thing went. And she never came down to the bar…"

"We need to get up to the house," Abe said. "Get Dean patched up. Check on Maggie—who I'm sure is fine—figure out what to do next."

"What about Jones?" Sam asked.

Abe took a breath, then pushed himself to his feet. "We leave him for now. We'll take care of him when we've…eliminated this creature."

Dean nodded, trying to gain his feet as well. Sam stood, bracing Dean's elbow and lifting him by the back of his jeans, balancing him.

"Salt," Dean said.

Sam nodded, looking at Abe. "Around the perimeter of the building."

Without question, Abe turned, crossing to the shelf Sam had been trying to move, and began searching through canisters and boxes until he found the industrial-sized carton of salt. He looked at Yeats.

"You have keys to this place?"

"'Course."

"Go around the outside and lock the front door." Abe pried open the carton of salt. "We don't need anyone wandering in to this mess while we're up at the house."

"Got it."

"You boys," Abe looked at Sam, then leveled his eyes on Dean. "Get outside to my truck. I'll be right behind you."

"Abe—" Dean protested.

"Dean, stick with your brother," Abe interrupted.

"But—"

"Just stay with him. Don't let him out of your sight."

Sam felt cold from the weight in Abe's voice, the look in his eyes as he stared at Dean. He felt Dean straighten, taking back his own balance, pulling away. Before Sam could say anything, Dean turned, putting a hand on Sam's shoulder and pushed him toward the back exit. He suddenly moved as if he were whole. As if he weren't bleeding. As if fever wasn't radiating off of him through the heat in his hand resting on Sam's arm.

"I got it," Sam shrugged Dean's hand free and stalked toward the door, aware that he was pouting, but not caring for a moment. "I'm not four, man. I can take care of myself."

"Let's just go," Yeats grumbled, opening the door, glancing both ways, then hefting the shotgun, moving around the corner of the building.

"Where do you think Lloyd went?" Dean asked as he stepped up next to Sam, heading toward Abe's red truck.

"I can think of a few places I'd like to tell him to go," Sam said, "but that's just wishful thinking."

"Damn, Sammy," Dean pulled a corner of his mouth up in a grin, watching the ground as he walked. "Almost feel sorry for the bastard if you ever cross paths with him. Sal, too, for that matter."

"They tried to kill you, Dean."

"_Tried_, Sammy. I'm still here."

_Better stay that way_…

When they reached the truck, Sam looked around and saw Abe had completed a circle of salt around the bar. Turning his head in the opposite direction Sam could see the safe house and the tail end of the Impala. The wet ground started to soak up the salt and clouds were already gathering on the western horizon once more.

"That's not going to trap it for long," Sam muttered.

"Let's just take what we can get," Dean replied, yanking open the truck door and climbing in, his lower lip trapped between his teeth.

Sam followed him, pressing close in the confines of the truck cab, Abe on the other side of Dean. Yeats swung into the truck bed. The drive to Maggie's was quick, but Sam knew Dean needed the break riding offered them. As they exited the truck, Sam heard thunder in the distance.

"Hope that rain holds off," he commented.

"I hate rain," Dean muttered, moving around the side of the truck, his shoulders hunched in what Sam imagined was a fair amount of pain.

"I know," Sam said softly as they stepped through Maggie's front door.

And stopped.

The bomb that had hit the bar had apparently gone off inside Maggie's house, too. With the exception of blood splatter, the destruction was similar, and widespread. Lamps in the living room area were shattered, light bulbs laid bare and glaring. Furniture overturned, books scattered from shelves.

"Maggie!" Yeats bellowed. "Answer me, girl."

Abe and Yeats moved as one, following the path of chaos from the entry way to the kitchen. Sam saw them pull up short, then Abe stepped through the doorway. He and Dean followed, apprehensively.

Maggie lay on the floor, face-down, midst broken crocks and plates, crushed vegetables and scattered flour and sugar, a dagger-like knife gripped tightly in her out flung hand. Sam couldn't see any blood, but she was very still. He swallowed as Abe crouched next to her.

"Is she…"

"She's breathing," Abe said. "Strong pulse."

Very gently, as if she were made of glass, Abe rolled the sturdy woman over to her back. Yeats eased the knife from her hand and laid it up on the counter. Abe tapped Maggie's cheek gently, then smoothed a hand over top of her short, spiky blonde hair.

Maggie stirred slightly and Sam felt himself release the air he'd been holding when he saw her bright green eyes blink open.

"Abe?" Maggie coughed out weakly. "What…" She slid bleary eyes from Abe's face to Yeats, then past him to Sam and Dean. "What did I miss?"

"You okay?" Abe asked, cupping the back of her neck.

Closing her eyes with a groan, Maggie breathed, "How much did I have to drink last night?"

"You're not hung-over," Yeats informed her. "Someone attacked you."

"No shit, Sherlock," Maggie snapped, opening her eyes. "Think I use this thing for cooking? Hey," she pushed herself to her elbows with Abe's help, looking at her empty hand. "Where's my knife?"

Yeats nodded to the counter.

"Give it to me."

"Maggie—"

"Yeats, gimme the damn knife."

"Maggie, did you see who attacked you?" Abe asked.

Maggie kept her eyes pinned to Yeats. "No."

Dean and Sam looked at Yeats, waiting for a reaction. Sam knew enough to recognize a blatant lie tossed out as a challenge. The destruction of the house, Maggie lying on the floor with a knife in her hand, the expression on her face all suggested that she knew _exactly_ who had attacked her.

Yeats simply stared back at the sharp-eyed woman. Abe reached up and handed Maggie the knife. With a quick flick and turn of her wrist, Maggie slide the knife, blade first, into a sheath positioned under the counter, allowing Abe to help her to her feet. She pulled her eyes from Yeats and looked at the brothers.

"You two look like hell," she said. "You sleep out in the woods or something."

"Uh, actually, yeah," Sam nodded.

"Dean, are you… bleeding?" Maggie stepped forward, then wavered on her feet, reaching for the counter, the knife in her hand clinking against the tile surface.

"Easy, Maggie," Abe reached for her, but she pushed his hand away.

"Head's pretty hard," she said. "I'm not bleeding. Which is more than I can say for either of you."

Abe reached up and touched his head with an expression of mild surprise. Dean simply stared back at her.

"Sit down. I have a med kit in the other room." Maggie moved away from Abe, reaching for the doorframe as she stepped through, not completely steady on her feet.

Sam pulled a chair out for Dean to fall into, then sat on the other side quickly and obediently. The relief he felt at someone barking orders would have been humorous if he weren't so tired, so ready for someone else to be in charge again.

No one spoke. Sam rested his eyes on Dean's forearm, watching the muscles twist and roll as Dean scratched at a knot on the worn surface of the table with his thumbnail. Sam thought for a moment about the familiarity of family. About how he knew his brother's smell, the exact way Dean moved, how he could tell what Dean was feeling just by the look in his brother's eyes.

He wondered if others could see what he saw. He wondered if Dean knew how easy it was to read him. He wondered if Dean knew that Sam saw the shadow lurking in the corners of his expressions, the hint of doubt when he said he didn't blame Sam. When he said it wasn't his fault. He wondered if Dean knew how deeply that shadow dug into him. Because it hadn't been there before. Not even after Roosevelt Asylum.

"Sam."

Dean's voice made him jump.

"What?"

"You're watching me."

Sam dropped his eyes with a small smile. Watching Dean was something he excelled at. It was something he'd been doing all of his life.

"Sorry."

"I'm okay, man."

Glancing up, Sam saw the truth in Dean's eyes. The truth his mouth betrayed. _I'm not okay, I hurt, I'm scared, I can't protect you and it's killing me…_ Sam sighed.

"You don't have to be," he said softly.

Maggie returned, dropping a large First Aid box in the middle of the table. Without saying a word, she crossed to the sink, washed her hands, swallowed three pain pills, then handed some to Abe with a glass of water. Sam cut his eyes between Maggie and Dean. His brother kept his eyes on the table in front of him, staring blindly at the swirling wood pattern. Sam wondered what he was seeing.

Maggie took the antiseptic from the kit, and with surprisingly steady hands, cleaned the cut on Abe's brow and put two butterfly bandages on his dark skin, pulling the edges of the wound together. Once done, Maggie ran a gentle hand down Abe's cheek. Their eyes met briefly, then they both turned to look at Dean. Sam felt Dean squirm even though his brother didn't move a muscle.

"Why don't you hand me those butterflies and I'll take care of this," Dean tried.

"Dean," Abe admonished as Maggie turned fully to face him.

Sam saw Dean steal a glance in his direction.

"Seriously," Dean lifted his hand, his fingers waving them off. "It's not as bad as it looks. Coupla aspirin and I'll be set."

"I can tell you have a fever from here, kiddo," Maggie said. "What are you afraid of?"

"I'm not afraid." Dean snapped. "I just don't like people poking around on me."

Maggie flicked a look to Sam. Sighing softly, Sam slid his hand to Dean's forearm, dismayed to feel the heat there. Dean tried to jerk away, but Sam curled his fingers tighter, suddenly rocked by a memory he couldn't quite place.

_Don't let go… I'll fall if you let go…_

"Dean, please," he said softly. "Just let them take care of you."

"Sam," Dean protested, equally as softly. "I'm…" He swallowed, looking down. When he spoke again, it was to the table and audible only to Sam. "I'm barely hanging on, man."

"I know," Sam said. "I'll hang on for both of us, okay?"

Dean nodded, relaxing back into the chair, staring into the middle distance, mentally pulling away from the group, but keeping his arm perfectly still so that Sam's hand didn't slide off. Sam felt a small tremor slide through the muscles in Dean's arm and realized his brother was tapping his index finger against the table in a steady, measured beat.

Taking a breath, Maggie stepped forward and pulled up Dean's torn, bloody shirt, exposing most of his chest. Carefully, she peeled away the make-shift towel Sam had applied in the kitchen, then, flicking out the blade of her knife, she cut away the T-shirt bandage they'd used by the side of the river.

Dean closed his eyes and Sam felt saliva flood his mouth as his stomach turned over at the sight of the wound. The top part of the cut had puckered closed with barely any pink around the edges, but lower, toward Dean's navel, where the gouge widened, the cauterized seal had broken open slightly and blood seeped through the crusted skin. The edges were blackened and with swollen, red edging fading to bright pink.

Yeats coughed, and Sam heard his chair legs scrape as he stood up. Sam breathed through his mouth, his eyes shooting up to Dean's pale, tense face. He saw Dean pulling air through his nose, his jaw clenched so tight the muscle along the edge of his scruffy jaw didn't relax. His lips moved almost imperceptibly, and Sam tried to read the words forming there.

"Abe, go wash your hands real quick so you can play nurse," Maggie said, her voice controlled. "We'll get you patched up here pretty quick, Dean."

"'Kay," Dean breathed.

"Want some aspirin first?"

"Oh, God, yes," Dean said.

Maggie handed him three ibuprofen's, holding the water for him as he swallowed without opening his eyes. As she reached for the antiseptic, Sam felt the muscles in Dean's forearm roll as he curled his fingers into a fist of anticipation, softly beating his knuckles against the table.

Desperate to distract his brother from the pain, Sam blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "I hate _S&M_."

Dean blinked, looking at Sam out of the corner of his eyes. Sam ignored the three other pairs of surprised eyes that snapped to his face, concentrating only on Dean.

"_Please_ tell me you're talking… about Metallica," Dean gasped out.

"'Course Metallica," Sam said, blushing. "I hate that album. You play it all the freakin' time. I hate that I know all the words to every song."

"Y-you know all the words?" Dean groaned, arching his neck up a bit as Maggie continued to gently clean the wound. "I didn't know…ah!"

"I think I actually prefer Zeppelin." Sam hurried to say when Dean gasped. "If you gotta play a classic, I'd pick them."

"N-never thought…aw, _damn_…never thought I'd hear you say that."

"One of these days," Sam tightened his grip as he felt Dean's muscles ripple beneath the skin of his forearm. "I'm gonna get you to put a CD player in that car. Open up a whole new world for you."

"Not a chance," Dean panted.

"I'm telling you, dude, there's music out there you would totally dig. I swear some of it's written specifically for you."

"My little brother… Emo Boy."

"Hang in there," Maggie said softly when Dean's growl turned into a slight whimper. "Almost done."

"Hey, Dean?" Sam continued, when Dean's breath began to increase.

"Yeah," Dean strained out.

"What do you hate?"

"Huh?"

"Of my stuff?"

Dean opened his eyes, turning to look at Sam as Maggie reached into the kit for salve to rub onto the burned skin. Dean's lashes were gathered in wet bunches from the sweat trickling into his eyes. When he blinked, drops of sweat trickled from his lashes to his face like tears.

"What are you talking about?"

"Seriously," Sam leaned forward, intent on keeping Dean's attention. "Tell me what just bugs the shit out of you."

"You don't want to hear that," Dean shook his head and Sam saw him tighten his muscles tipping forward slightly.

"Sure, I do! C'mon, what? Filter? Audioslave? Staind?"

"God! Fine, you freak!" Dean growled, gripping the table as Maggie slathered the salve on the cut. "That dude that used to sing with Creed. You always stop on that one freakin' _Broken_ song on the radio and I _hate_ it."

"Huh," Sam bobbed his head. "Good to know."

"Great," Dean leaned back against the chair once more when Maggie paused, reaching into the kit for bandages. "Now you're gonna probably request the song or something."

"Oh! Not a bad idea." Sam grinned when Dean rolled his eyes.

"Me and my big mouth. You almost done?" Dean asked Maggie.

"One second, there tough guy," Maggie returned. "Let me wrap some gauze around you so that cream has a chance of working. Abe's gonna check your shoulder."

Dean nodded, rolling his head to the side so that Abe could pull away the make-shift bandage and replace it with clean gauze.

"You need a hospital, Dean," Maggie said, stating the obvious.

"No," Dean shook his head.

"I'm serious," Maggie tried again, leaning close and rolling the gauze around Dean's middle, pulling it tight around a thick cotton pad she'd placed over the cauterized wound. "You're working on an infection here."

"No hospitals, Maggie," Dean sighed. "I'm not trying to be a pain in the ass."

"Doing a bang up job there," Maggie grumbled, using several strips of medical tape to secure the gauze.

"We've had some… trouble," Sam said, working his lips over his teeth nervously. "Dean just doesn't want to call attention to us."

"Dead bodies call a lot more attention than hurt bodies do," Maggie pointed out, making Sam wince.

"Speaking of," Dean lifted his head, looking at Abe. "We gotta do something about Jones."

"We aren't going back there until we know how to stop that creature." Abe took the tape from Maggie, finishing re-bandaging Dean's healing shoulder.

Dean rubbed his head. Sam peered at him, reluctantly releasing the hold he'd had on his arm.

"Dean?"

"Think we should call Bobby?" Dean asked him.

"Bobby Singer?" Maggie practically squeaked.

Dean nodded. "He could come help us—"

"No," Maggie shook her head. "No, we can figure this one out. Bobby doesn't need to come."

"What's the deal with you two?" Dean shot at her.

Maggie pushed to her feet. "None of your business. Call him if you want. But he doesn't need to come here to help you."

"Sam," Abe drew his attention. "Let's go back to the computer. Find out about this…ikiryoh."

"I'm coming with you," Dean said, pressing his palms flat against the table.

"No," Abe returned, causing Dean's eyebrows to bounce high. "You go rest. I'll watch him."

"Abe," Dean protested. "You just said I shouldn't let him out of my sight. You wouldn't have said that for nothing."

"He'll be okay with me."

"Hey!" Sam spoke up. "I'm _right here_."

Dean dropped his head and Sam saw the lines of exhaustion framing his brother's profile. "Fine," he relented. "But just for a few minutes."

Sam watched Dean struggle to get to his feet and stood, cupping his elbow. He felt warmth circling Dean like a cocoon.

"Here," Sam said, guiding his shuffling, stumbling brother to the couch. "Couch looks like it's in one piece. You can lay here."

"Sammy," Dean groaned as he eased down to the couch.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks," Dean said, his eyes up, pinned to Sam's face.

"You're welcome."

"Hey," Dean paused before laying back.

"Yeah?"

"You think Lobo's okay? We haven't seen him since last night."

"He's fine, Dean." Sam reassured him, though he really had no idea.

"Just doesn't have anyone watching out for him, y'know? Hard not to fit in anywhere."

Sam folded his lips down in sad smile, unable to ignore the similarities he saw between the animal and his brother. "He's fine," he said again. "I bet we see him again tomorrow."

"Hope so," Dean whispered.

"Go on," Sam encouraged. "Lay down."

"Wake me up, okay? Don't…" Dean grunted slightly as he sank back against the cushions. "Don't go off… and play hero."

_Don't let go…I'll fall if you let go…_ Sam frowned, still unable to pinpoint source of those words. Dean's voice, saturated with pain and panic, hung in his memory.

"I'll make sure you get to play, too," Sam said softly, watching Dean's heavy eyes drift shut. He cast about, finding a blanket tangled on the floor with a pile of books and shook it free, covering Dean from ankles to chin.

Watching his brother sleep for a moment, Sam realized how young he looked with his eyes closed. How untouched by their life he appeared. Dean's eyes held the worry of time past his years.

"You ready?" Abe asked.

Nodding, Sam joined him, darting a look into the kitchen. "What about them?"

"I think they have some…cleaning up to do," Abe said simply, leading the way to the office.

Almost an hour later, Sam sat back, pinching the bridge of his nose. Abe stood next to his chair, one arm crossed over his chest, supporting the other that was up by his mouth, fingers spread over lips.

"All this time," he whispered.

Sam squinted up at him. "What?"

"I had the solution all this time."

"You did?"

Abe nodded. "The hunter, at the _Roadhouse_," he said.

Sam just shook his head. "Hunter?"

"Oh, right," Abe hovered a hand over his brow, smoothing back his dark hair. "I forgot I'd just told Dean. The hunter that died at the _Roadhouse_, the one that sent me on the path of belladonna poisoning…he had a paper with Buddhist sutras written on it in his pocket."

"Did you keep it?"

Abe nodded. "It's in my truck."

"Could it be that easy?" Sam wondered. "Just read the sutra and…gone?"

"Why not?" Abe challenged. "Isn't that how it works for demons?"

Sam shrugged. "Sorta. I mean, Latin is an ancient, powerful language."

"It's not the only powerful language, though," Abe pointed out. "For my people, it isn't the language, but the belief behind the word. You read a Latin exorcism, you believe it will send the demon to Hell."

"True."

"Same thing here," Abe pointed to the computer screen. "The ikiryoh is a spirit born of evil thoughts and feelings. Energized by hatred and can become powerful enough to leave its source and assume the object of the person's hatred. Difficult to exorcise, but can be done by reciting Buddhist sutras."

Sam pushed away from the computer, rubbing the back of his neck in a gesture he knew he'd picked up from Dean. "Does it make you wonder what kind of evil thoughts and feelings manifests in the form of a… kid?"

Abe nodded. "But perhaps it's not a child. Perhaps it's a symbol."

Sam frowned. "A symbol of what?"

Abe lifted a shoulder, heading toward the doorway. "A childhood lost. Innocence destroyed. Duty before freedom. Responsibility outside of the realm of understanding."

Sam swallowed, looking blankly at the floor where Abe had been standing. _Before Dad died…he told me something…about you…_

"Hey, Abe?"

"Yeah?"

_He said that I had to…watch out for you…take care of you…_

"You think that whole language thing—about believing the meaning more than the words…"

"Yes?"

_He said I had to…save you, and if I couldn't… he said…_

"You think it works for all words? Any language?"

Sam felt Abe's hand on his shoulder, fingers gripping with gentle reassurance.

_He said I might have to kill you, Sammy._

"Yes, Sam, I do."

"You think if someone says you didn't do anything wrong," Sam struggled to speak around the lump in his throat, still facing away from Abe. "You think that erases what you know you did?"

Sam felt Abe sigh as his hand became heavier. "Sam, I think that it's possible to forgive without forgetting. But just because you remember doesn't change how you need. Or how you love."

Sam paused a moment, turning sideways in his chair. "You think that's true for brothers?"

"I think it's specifically true for brothers."

www

At first Dean wasn't sure if the words he heard were real or faded moments in a dream. The voices were unfamiliar, the cadence angry. As he climbed up another level of awareness, he realized he could make out a female and a male voice. Another level still and he understood that what they were saying he wasn't meant to hear.

With that, he jolted completely awake, lying still, stiff from sleep and achy from fever. He couldn't remember where Sam was, except that he'd promised not to go anywhere without him. Rolling his eyes around the room, he saw the destroyed furniture around him and suddenly remembered that he was on Maggie's couch.

_Maggie. Yeats. Knife. Shattered house_.

"You don't _know_ it was her," Yeats hissed in a stage whisper.

"I sure as hell do," Maggie snapped back, her whisper more controlled. "I saw her, Yeats. I saw her the same night the boys showed up. In the bar."

"It's impossible…" Yeats' voice faded a bit, then increased in volume. "They showed me a body."

"They lied to you. Or they were mistaken. She looked just like Riina, Yeats. It was Claire."

"And you think she's the one that… that did all of this?" Yeats sounded incredulous.

Dean rolled to his elbow, stealing himself for the tight pull that he knew would capture his breath when he tried to sit up.

"I think she's the witch Abe's been hunting. The boys, too, for all I know. I think she's the one that killed Jones."

"No, Maggie, I _told_ you what killed Jones! Hell, _Jones_ killed Jones."

"Not alone he didn't," Maggie spat. "That creature didn't just come from outer space, Yeats. Someone _created _it."

Dean managed to push himself to his feet soundlessly, biting back the whimper that teased the back of his throat.

"Claire died, Maggie. End of story."

"You're wrong," Maggie returned.

Dean moved slowly across the entryway, the skin of his belly hot and tight against the gauze bandage. He leaned in the doorway of the kitchen, watching Maggie and Yeats circle each other like Alpha wolves, lips pulled back over teeth, eyes snapping. Maggie spun a knife, gained from apparently another secreted sheath, between the fingers of her right hand in a distracted, unconscious manner.

"Who's Claire?" Dean asked causally.

Maggie jumped and Yeats whipped around, staring at him with pale-faced shock.

"Dean! You shouldn't be up. Let me help you—"

"Who. Is. Claire?" Dean repeated.

Behind him, Dean heard Sam and Abe approach from the office. Abe stepped through the doorway; Sam leaned against the other side of the door jam, his lanky body finishing the job Dean's had started of filling the empty space.

"I think my brother asked you a question," Sam spoke up.

"You find anything out on the ikiryoh?" Yeats asked Abe.

Abe stared back, stone-faced and silent.

Shifting flinty eyes between the three men staring at him, Yeats finally relented, sinking into the nearest chair. "Claire is… _was_… my daughter."

Dean's eyebrows went up.

"I met her mother when I was stationed in Bangkok. Didn't know about Claire until many years later, when Riina, her mother, died."

"How did you know Riina?" Dean shifted his eyes to Maggie.

"How did you—"

"You said Claire looked just like her," Dean pointed out.

Maggie sighed. "Yeats keeps her picture. I've seen it several times."

In no mood for excuses or lengthy stories, Dean turned back to Yeats. "What makes you think she's dead?"

Dean felt Sam glance at him, but kept his eyes on Yeats. He knew they looked dead, hard, and scary. He knew he'd leeched all emotion from them. He'd done so on purpose, to put himself at a level tougher than the Marine before him. Staring down a man who had stared down death was a skill John Winchester made sure his oldest son knew well.

"When they told me about her, she was twelve. I was a hunter…that's no life for a child."

Dean glanced quickly at Sam, then back at Yeats.

"So I sent her to live with some of her mother's relatives in Texas. After awhile…I realized I was wrong to have abandoned her and I went to look for her. I was two days too late. She'd been attacked by a group of guys who were apparently there for spring break and died as a result of her injuries."

"You ever find out who hurt her?" Sam asked.

"No," Yeats said. "The one witness they had disappeared and I guess they never got a full statement from Claire."

"They showed you a body?"

Yeats nodded.

"How could you identify her if you hadn't seen her since she was twelve?" Sam asked.

Yeats blinked. "Riina was Japanese. The body they showed me—"

"Was a young Japanese woman, and you just assumed it was Claire?" Sam scoffed.

"Don't judge him for something that happened sixteen years ago," Maggie broke in. "You have no idea what his life was like, why he decided to leave her. He thought he was doing the best thing for her."

Dean was quiet. Now was not the time to voice echoing pain and lingering resentments he felt toward his father, no matter how stinging the memories that resulted from Yeats' actions. Looking over at Sam he sighed.

"You find out how to get rid of The Grudge in the bar?"

Sam nodded. "You're not going to believe it, either."

"What is it? We gotta watch a bad Japanese horror flick seven times in a row or something?"

"Buddhist sutras."

Dean's eyebrows met over the bridge of his nose. "Come again?"

"Reciting Buddhist sutras will exorcise this thing, though apparently it's supposed to be difficult to do so," Abe informed them.

"Wait, why do I know…" Dean frowned.

"The hunter at the _Roadhouse_," Abe reminded him.

"Dude! You've had the solution all this time and we didn't even know it!"

"That's what I said."

"Okay, so, let's just—"

Sam gasped, clutching his head and going to his knees so suddenly that Dean barely had time to turn let alone catch him. Leaning over his brother, Dean tried to gather Sam up, but there was too much of him, and he was limp from pain.

"Sammy!"

"Aw, _God,_ Dean… uh… I see… I see a man…"

"A man?"

"He's standing over me… looking down at me and… shit, Dean, he has… yellow eyes…"

"You see _our_ demon?" Dean was starting to get frantic. The dark visions hadn't hurt Sam this bad.

Sam crumbled forward again with a cry of pain, the heels of his hands digging into his eyes. "Fire… God, Dean, Mom… Mom's on fire…"

With cold horror, Dean realized that Sam's vision wasn't of things to come; he was witnessing horror from his past just as they all had. _Except Sam gets to see it in Technicolor…_

"Hey, Sammy, easy, okay? We've already survived that, right? It's already over."

Sam panted, his eyes pressed shut. Dean clutched his arms, pulling him forward so Sam's forehead rested on his collarbone. Holding his brother as the vision shook through him, Dean looked at Abe.

"Get those friggin' Kama sutra things right the hell _now_. We're getting rid of this son of a bitch."

Abe nodded, then headed to his truck. Sam soon relaxed against Dean, dragging in breath. Dean held him until he felt the trembling ease, slowly pushing him away so that he could look at his face.

"You with me?" Dean asked, his thumb on Sam's rough cheek.

"Enough, man, okay? I'm done. No more. Game over."

"I hear you, Sammy."

"We're just going to go over there and…" Yeats started, his voice doubtful.

"Kill it," Dean said with certainty as Sam sat back, recovering.

"But," Yeats looked at Maggie. "If it is here because of Claire…"

"Could she just bring it back?" Maggie finished.

"I don't know," Dean answered honestly. "But until we find Claire, we deal with the problem at hand."

Abe returned. "I have them."

"Let's go," Dean said, using the door frame to pull himself to his feet.

www

As they approached the front of the bar, Abe realized two things: he'd seen too many old westerns, and it had started to rain. They walked five abreast, Sam and Dean in the middle, approaching weaponless and with a purpose. Yeats' face was lined with memories and doubt, a look Abe wasn't accustomed to seeing on the weathered bouncer's visage. Maggie's bright green eyes were focused, the light rain turning the tips of her blond hair silver. Sam nervously chewed on his bottom lip, his eyes shifting from the front door to Dean.

Dean's eyes were half-mast, ready, but weary, and Abe could see him shivering as his clothes once again became slowly water-logged. He knew Dean shouldn't be out in the rain, approaching a battle. Not with that wound. Not with that fever. But he also knew that Yeats was in no condition mentally to back him up, and there was no way Dean would have let Sam go alone.

_Two halves of the same coin_, Abe thought looking at the brothers a moment longer.

"I hate rain," Dean grumbled, almost as if he knew he was expected to say something in this moment.

"We need a rear guard," Abe said. "Yeats, you and Maggie stay out here, keep watch."

He slid the strap of his rifle from his shoulder and handed it to Maggie. Yeats checked the shotgun he had yet to turn loose.

"Dean and Sam, you're with me."

Abe took the keys from Yeats, then stepped across the salt ring he'd laid down just a few hours earlier. He laughed quietly at himself for expecting some oddly timed crash of thunder as he breached the protective barrier. Unlocking the front door, he pulled out the sutras, tore it twice so that each of them had several lines, and handed the papers to Dean and Sam.

"You ready for this?"

"I was born ready," the brother's answered in unison, blinking stone-faced back at him.

Taking a breath, Abe stepped into the bar, the stench of death and blood assaulting him immediately.

"It's dark," Dean said. "Suns out, but…it's still…dark."

Abe knew what he meant. It wasn't so much the lack of illumination; it was the palpable feeling of evil that permeated every molecule of air.

"Don't forget in the darkness what you learned in the light," Abe said softly, hoping to wrap both of the brothers in the words, infuse them with the knowledge that if nothing else, they had each other in this battle against wickedness.

He closed the door behind them. The brothers flanked him, moving easily to create a semi circle, Sam standing near the bar, Dean near the destroyed jukebox. They faced each other and Abe saw them lock eyes before holding their papers before them.

The sound of a wasted limb being drug across the floor in slow, halting steps reached their ears. Abe tensed, his eyes darting around the dimly lit interior, the fading sun filling the windows with gray light and spilling inside reluctantly. From the shadows jerked the quick, unnatural motion of the ikiryoh, its childlike visage marred by the inky black orbs staring death back at them.

Abe began reading.

_"Throughout all the world there is nothing that's permanent. Even the Earth has the nature of transience. Bodies are centers of sorrow and emptiness. All of my parts are devoid of self, are dependent on causes and therefore impermanent, changing, decaying and out of control. Expectations of permanence cause disappointment, forming attachments that lead to wrong doing."_

As he read, the creature hissed, shrinking back with a growl that sounded like a cat in heat. Abe looked at Sam.

"Uh…" Sam looked down at his paper. "_Excessive desire only brings me to suffering. Birth and death, sorrow and weariness all are from greedy attachment to things of this world. But controlling desire cuts the root of unhappiness, leaving the body and mind to relax._"

The creature began to whimper, twisting, its head turning completely around until it faced the front again, leaving its neck in a sickening corkscrew shape. The whimpers became full-on cries as Dean began to read.

"_Insatiable cravings for things of this world only cause me to pile up more useless possessions, increasing my motives for sin and wrongdoing. A seeker of freedom should let go of craving and, seeing it's uselessness, grow in contentment. Rejecting life's baubles and seeking the Way I'll concern myself only with gaining release."_

With a wail that sounded like a baby's cry, the creature shimmered, then vanished, leaving behind a distinct scent of ozone mixed in with the blood.

Dean blinked. "That was easy."

"Too easy," Abe frowned. "Something's not right."

"Well," Dean folded his paper. "At least it was in English this time. Latin gets old after awh—"

At his abrupt stop, Abe looked over and saw Dean staring at his brother. Shifting his eyes to Sam, Abe felt his heart drop. Sam looked pale and confused, his hand reaching for his throat like he was choking, though he was obviously pulling in great, gulping breaths.

"Dean?" Sam's voice sounded impossibly young as his eyes beseeched his brother.

"Sam. Sammy!" Dean crossed the room in three strides as Sam slowly slid down the side of the bar, landing with a thump on his rear. "Sam!" Dean gripped Sam's jacket sleeves, shaking him.

"Dean?" Sam reached up for his brother, his fingers clumsy against Dean's shirt.

"What's wrong with him?" Dean shouted over his shoulder at Abe.

"Oh, God," Abe whispered. "Oh, God, I failed. I failed you." He felt the heaviness of his heart wrap around his chest, slowly squeezing out all of the air in his body.

"Talk to me, dammit!" Dean growled.

"It…It took him," Abe stammered.

Dean looked back at Sam. "Took him?"

"The ikiryoh," Abe whispered. "It's inside of Sam."

* * *

a/n: The sutra they read is the _Sutra on the Eight Realizations_. 

_Nagazh, _Leave

More to come… some questions answered, others posed…and enemies return… Hope to see you in the next chapter if you're still hanging with me…


	5. Stare

**Disclaimer/Spoilers**: See Chapter 1

a/n: Writing this chapter was an interesting experience for me. Usually, if I have the movie in my mind as bright as this one has been I am able to completely escape and the world falls away while I write. This time, the world pressed in and it took a concentrated effort to get it to back the hell off. I really hope the chapter doesn't suffer as a result and I am braced for your feedback.

As always, sincere thanks to my beta, Kelly.

* * *

_"Though the winds of change may blow around you, but that will always be so  
When love is pain it can devour you, but you are never alone  
I would share your load. I would share your load."_

_-- Led Zeppelin, "In the Light"_

_"Sammy, where the hell are you? Are you okay? Hey, hey, hey, hey. Calm down. Where are you? Don't move. I'm on my way." _

www

It now knew pain. And weakness.

And, _God,_ light—light sliced through it, chewing up the sanctity of dark. The light burned, searing and twisting and cutting through devastation with razor-thin intent.

It was vanishing.

Fading…

Dying…

…except there was an opening. An _escape._

A way out.

A source of strength. Despair so thick that diving into it felt like moving through wet sand. Pain so fresh that the raw wound was something to be savored. Hopelessness hovered at the edge of reason and the being grabbed hold and dug in, working to rebuild, working to regroup.

Darkness was its ally, and a battle waged on.

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Sam's hands clutched at Dean's shirt in a hesitant, clumsy grip. Dean could feel his brother's body tremble through his knuckles as he twisted his fists against Sam's jacket, tightening his hold. Sam was pale, too pale, and pulling in air as though he were drowning from the inside out.

"What the _hell_ do you mean, inside of him?" Dean barked at Abe, still staring at Sam's wide, hazel eyes. "How could it be inside of him? We banished it."

"Look at him," Abe replied, his voice a helpless command. "We weakened it, but… but it's not gone."

"It's _not_ inside of Sam," Dean declared, as if saying it made it so, thinking of Jones, of Yeats' report of Jones' death. "It can't be."

"It saw a weakness and—"

"I said NO!" Dean roared over his shoulder, his voice low, dangerous. His lips pulled tight, jerking up in an angry snarl. "Bobby gave us charms, man. Sam can't be possessed again. He _can't_ be."

"Dean," Sam pleaded, clutching at Dean's shirt with desperate fingers.

"I'm here," Dean's voice instantly softened, his eyes flying back to Sam's face. "I'm here, Sammy."

"Something's… something's wrong."

Dean closed his eyes for a moment, his body shivering, his world swimming. _Not yet… not yet…_

"I can feel it." Sam groaned.

Dean felt ice form edges on his heart. "What?"

"Inside me…" Sam panted. "I can feel it."

"No," Dean shook his head. "No, man. It's a vision, or something else—"

"Dean." Sam's eyes were wide, his pupils so large that Dean could barely see any hazel around the edge. He watched as Sam focused on his own fingers, concentrating on tightening them on Dean's shirt. "Dean, don't you let it take me."

_Aw, God, Sammy…_ "I won't. I won't, I promise," Dean whispered, softly shaking Sam. He looked over at Abe. "Give me one of those sutras."

Abe shook his head slowly. "We already tried—"

"Abe," Dean said, working to make his voice a reflection of his father's commanding bark. "Don't argue with me, just give me the damn paper."

Dean tilted his chin slightly over his shoulder, not looking at Abe, but directing the order in the Ojibwa's direction. He _needed_ Abe to listen to him, to follow him, to work with him. He needed it because he could feel himself falling inside. He could feel himself losing. He could feel the wound in his belly, the hole in his shoulder, the bruises on his face spiking a heat through his body that caused him to tremble with a weakness he couldn't afford to give in to.

Dean heard the front door open. Heard it slam shut. Heard voices muffled by wooden walls confront each other. Heard the creak of a car door. Heard the rasp of his brother's breath. Heard the steady thrum of his own blood as it rushed through his body. Heard his heart as it bartered time for strength.

His boots crunched against the broken glass scattered on the floor beneath them as he shifted, resting heavily on his knees as he maintained his grip on Sam. His brother blinked up at him, his weak hold slowly loosening, scaring Dean more than the wide-eyed panic on Sam's face.

"You keep hold of me, Sam, okay?"

Sam blinked, nodding, face tense.

"We're gonna read more of those sutras. Fix you right up."

If Sam heard the tremor in Dean's voice, he gave no sign of it, just pulled in air through his parted lips and shoved it back out with obvious effort. Abe returned with another slam of the bar's main door. Dean kept his eyes forward, feeling dissatisfaction roll off Abe as keenly as he'd always felt from John after a hunt gone wrong. A part of Dean recognized that it wasn't directed at _him_ as much as the _situation_, but he was too tired and too much had happened for him to process the difference.

"Here," Abe's voice was low.

Dean saw a paper slide into his periphery and reluctantly released Sam with one hand to reach up and grab it. He cleared his throat, squaring his shoulders and dropping his chin to his chest as if prepared to walk directly into a headwind.

_"The flames of existence are hard to escape from. They bring us to pain and to sorrow unlimited. Thus I resolve to awake from my slumber…"_

Sam slammed his head back against the bar, his back arching into Dean's hand. The tendons in his neck tightened as he groaned, his eyes squeezing shut against an unseen pain.

Tightening his fist, Dean continued. "_And, feeling concern for all sentient beings, arouse in myself an intense dedication which lets me withstand all my pain with forbearance—"_

"AH! God, Dean, stop! STOP!" Sam screamed, his body vibrating as the skin along his neck and jaw rolled and curled as if small hands stroked it from the inside.

"Sam!" Dean spat, dropping the paper and curling his fists against his brother's jacket. "No. No, this isn't happening. Not again. This _isn't_ happening."

"Let me help," Abe said gently, approaching Dean from behind, resting a careful hand on Dean's shoulder.

Dean turned lethal eyes on him, his mouth a thin line of panic. "No. Stay back. Don't touch him."

"Dean," Abe reached out a hesitant hand toward Sam as he slumped once more against the bar, hanging from Dean's grip, eyes closed, lips parted. "You can't—"

"Don't tell me that I can't take care of him." Dean pushed his voice from his gut, feeling the ice grow around his heart and the fever burn through his limbs. "I've been taking care of him all my life."

He heard Abe draw in a breath. "You're hurt. You are burning up."

"I'm _fine_," Dean snapped, sliding his right hand from Sam's jacket to his brother's face, gripping his chin with his thumb. "Sammy. Hey. Hey!"

Sam blinked heavy eyes half-open.

"I'm gonna get you outta here. Get this figured out."

"Hurts," Sam whispered, his voice strained.

Dean nodded quickly, absorbing and dismissing the information in one motion. "I'll make it stop, okay?"

Sam nodded, his lips pushed out, giving him the appearance of a much younger version of himself. Dean felt his brows pull together, his eyes burning with the urge to give in to exhaustion and pain. Sucking in a breath through his teeth, Dean twisted sideways, his knees grinding on the broken glass, and reached for Sam's arm, trying to slide it over his shoulder and lift Sam from the ground.

The pain hit him like a sledge hammer to the gut. He vaguely heard himself cry out, felt himself pitch forward, knew he was awkwardly splayed across Sam's chest as his stomach burned through to his throat, gagging him. Words he didn't understand said in a tone he wanted to lean into slid across his ringing ears, soothing him as strong hands gently rocked him backwards, lifting him off his brother.

His breaths becoming sobs, Dean allowed Abe to ease him back for just a moment before leaning away, his shoulder bumping the underside of the bar. _I screwed up… I lost him again… dammit, I screwed up…_

"Let me help," Abe repeated, his plea now a command.

Dean nodded weakly. "Get him out of here," he said, looking over at Sam. "It's too… dark in here."

"You're right," Abe said. "I think the creature has power here. Something is feeding it."

Dean swallowed, watching Sam arch his neck against the pain ratcheting through him.

"Sam," he said to Abe. "Sam is feeding it."

Abe frowned, leaning forward, gathering Sam's long arms into his grip. With a grunt of effort he lifted Sam from his slouched position on the ground, draping an arm over his shoulders and hefting Sam's semi-limp body.

"I'll come back for you," Abe said to Dean.

"I got it," Dean whispered.

"Dean—"

"I said I got it," Dean snapped. He was a soldier, dammit. The one that got the job done. The protector. "Just get Sam out of here." He reached up with a sweaty, trembling hand, grabbed the upper lip of the bar and grit his teeth as he pulled himself to his feet.

The room tilted dangerously around him, but he kept his balance, watching as Abe half helped, half dragged Sam to the front door, turned the handle, then kicked the door wide enough to allow them both room to pass through. Dean saw Maggie cover her mouth at the site of them and Yeats step forward to take Sam's other side.

Dean looked around the now-empty bar. It felt different. Cold. He could smell the blood from Jones' body. The spilled liquor on the floor. The fear left behind. He could smell singed ends of burned wires and melted plastic from the jukebox. With the slow, shuffling steps of someone moving in a dream, Dean crossed the bar toward the jukebox, glass shifting away from his scuffing feet or crunching under his heels.

As if it belonged to someone else, he watched his hand rise from his side, reach out to touch the broken shell of the jukebox, whispers of music drifting to him through flashes of memory.

_Feeding quarters and picking every classic rock song… watching Sam at the bar… setting up the hustle…_

A faint, musky scent of perfume wrapped around him, lulling his eyes closed. His fingertips squeaked as his heavy hand slipped down the smoky plastic.

_Hair falling like rain over slim shoulders… dark, almond-shaped eyes, watching… flashing to him, but watching others… full lips parting to whisper, moisture glistening on the full, red flesh… his gut tightening pleasantly in reaction…_

"Goddammit. I missed it," he cursed himself softly.

He'd been so intent on the hustle, so aware of Sam's fall into melancholy, he'd missed what had been right in front of him. Dropping his hand, he turned, realizing the entire scene in his head had taken no time at all; Sam, Abe, and Yeats were moving away from the bar, across the lot toward the safe house.

_Mine…_

Dean shot his head around quickly, fear slamming his heart against the base of his throat. The bar appeared empty save Jones' mangled body. But…he could smell perfume.

"Claire?" He whispered hesitantly. "That you?"

_Mine. Soon. Taken._

Dean frowned at the last word. He'd not heard it before, but it was echoing in the silence all the same.

_Mine. Soon. Taken…_

Swallowing, Dean slid a hand across his belly, feeling the heat there. Yeats had thought Claire was dead—died as a result of injuries sustained after being attacked by a group of guys in Texas on spring break. And her father had left her. Hadn't even known it had happened until it was too late.

Ghost or notClaire was angry. And the hell of it was part of Dean couldn't blame her. It was an empty feeling to know that you were put last in order of importance in the life of the person most important to you.

Pressing his hand tight to his wound, Dean moved from the _Hideout_, leaving the door opened behind him.

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"Lay him on the single," Abe said to Yeats.

Sam had sagged in their arms soon after crossing the threshold into the safe house. He was still conscious, but his breath was coming in short, panting bursts, and his skin was clammy and cold.

Sliding out from under Sam's arm, Abe straightened, looking over his shoulder as he sensed Dean enter the house. Abe's breath caught in his throat at the site of the hunter. Two days of stubble framed Dean's strong jaw, bruises standing out against pale cheeks and purple shadows were smudged beneath his bright green eyes.

He saw the careful way Dean was holding himself: left hand pressed tight against his wounded belly so as not to move his damaged shoulder more than he had to.

_How is he even still on his feet?_

Abe was viciously reminded of a walk through a Minnesota forest, the indomitable strength Dean had shown in an effort to get his brother to help, to safety. Glancing quickly at Sam's pale, wide-eyed face, Abe knew that Dean would have to draw on those reserves once more if he was going to pull his brother through this trial.

Maggie followed Dean into the house, grabbing one of the kitchen chairs and dragging the wooden legs across the worn floor to set it next to Sam's bed. As if he sensed safety beneath him, Dean simply dropped onto the chair, his eyes pinned to his brother.

"We need to cover that window before nightfall," Maggie said. "It's going to rain again."

Abe followed her line of sight to the broken window, dark brown curtains sucked through the jagged glass and fluttering in the increasing wind from the stalled storm outside.

"I got some plywood behind the bar," Yeats said, his rough voice hollow, as if waiting for an inevitable end.

"Go get it," Maggie commanded, meeting Abe's eyes, then raking her sharp green eyes over the brothers. "I'll grab some tools from the bar."

As they left, Abe looked down at Sam, frowning as he remembered Dean's words. _It's feeding on Sam…_

"We have to stop it," he declared.

Dean seemed to ignore him at first, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his eyes intent on his brother's restless form.

"It's gaining strength from Sam. The sutras didn't—"

"What did it say to you, Abe?" Dean asked suddenly.

"What?" Abe blinked at the sudden question.

"In the bar earlier," Dean didn't look at him, but Abe felt his focus. "I heard it say _mine_. Sam heard _soon_. What did you hear?"

Abe felt cold. Flashes of his father slipping away from him as his youthful arms tried to staunch the flow of blood, of his lover's blue eyes pleading with him to save her caused him to search for balance.

"It…" he swallowed. "It said _taken._"

Dean nodded as if he'd expected that answer.

"What did you think it meant when you heard it?"

"I thought it meant… that those I loved were taken from me." Abe said softly, thinking of Ailen's beautiful eyes emptying and closing.

"I thought it meant that I belonged to it," Dean confessed, rubbing his fingers over his lips, his silver ring scratching across the scruff on his chin. "And that it was going to take Sam soon."

"But, what? You've changed your mind?"

Dean nodded, still looking at Sam. Abe followed his line of sight as Yeats and Maggie returned with plywood, nails, and hammers. They crossed to the back of the small room, silent save the sound of the thin wood dragging against the floor. Abe ignored them, watching Dean.

"You said the ikiryoh had to be summoned or something, right?"

"Right," Abe tilted his head, watching Dean's face tense in thought.

"I think we were hearing Claire's thoughts. Or whatever thoughts she had that…conjured this thing."

"You don't think it had anything to do with us?" Abe asked.

Dean shook his head. "Not directly."

Sam groaned, his head turning from side to side against the white pillow.

"God, I wish Dad were here," Dean whispered, dropping his forehead down against his palm.

"What would he do if he were?" Abe said, his voice matching Dean's, as he crouched low, his knees popping with the motion.

Dean huffed out a humorless laugh. "If Dad were here…this thing would never have gotten Sam," he said. "Dad just didn't screw up like that."

"No," Sam rasped, his dilated eyes sweeping blindly toward Dean. "You're… wrong."

"Sam?" Dean leaned forward, one hand immediately resting on Sam's bicep.

"Pinned you to a wall. That's your M.O. Mask the pain." Sam was panting, reaching for Dean with clumsy hands.

"Take it easy, man," Dean tried.

"Never listened… always talking never listening… scared always scared and never listening…" Sam muttered, pulling at the collar of his T-shirt with one hand.

Dean looked up at Abe. "I gotta do something."

Abe swallowed, his mind spinning. Prayers and herbs and chants rolled through his memory and filed before his eyes, summarily dismissed as useless in the face of this spirit. He rubbed his face, frustrated that he could know so much and so little at the same time.

"I gotta do something," Dean repeated, rubbing the top of his head with the flat of his palm. "I gotta fix this."

"What would your dad do?" Abe asked again, watching Dean's face pull tight as he leaned closer to his restless brother.

"Hell if I know," Dean muttered, reaching for Sam's hand as his brother started to scratch at his throat with clawed, stiff fingers. "The man had more secrets than the government."

"Even from you?" Abe cocked his head to the side.

"Especially from us," Dean winced, one hand going to his stomach, his eyes never leaving Sam's face. "He worked on a need to know basis. I learned more about him after he died than I ever knew about him when he was alive."

Sam was muttering, his eyes slipping closed, then snapping open with panicked intent. His lips moved rapidly, though no coherent sound could be made out. Dean pressed his mouth closed, reaching up and brushing a lock of hair from Sam's forehead.

"Easy, Sammy," Dean whispered gently.

Watching them, Abe had a sudden image of two boys, years stripped away, scars reduced, time allowing for innocence as they sat in the dark comforting each other with false bravado and stories of heroes. He felt his chest tighten for the lives that had been lost so that others could live in the peaceful unknowing of the true monsters that surrounded them. Though they were still there, alive and living were two very different things.

"Fire… I knew and I didn't say I knew and I didn't say and she burned, Dean, she burned up and I didn't say…"

Dean covered his mouth, rubbing his lips with the flat of his fingers, his eyes darting in thought as Sam continued to twist on the bed, rambling through his darkest memories, guilt and pain and self-loathing eating him up.

"You always did the best you could," Dean whispered to Sam, his throat working against obvious emotion. "Even when we were kids, Sammy. You were always doing the right thing."

"I ran away and left you and I didn't know… I didn't know and you came back… you came back for me… you found me… every time you found me… you didn't let anything happen to me…"

Dean's jaw jumped as he pulled in a breath. He lifted hot eyes to Abe. "I need your help."

Abe felt air leave him. He wanted to take a step back, but held fast. He'd been a loner. He'd had Running Horse to go to for spiritual healing and Doc to turn to when his body failed him. When Ailen had died, he'd made a point of never needing anyone aside from those necessities and never allowing others to need him.

Until he stumbled across two young hunters, wounded, in the Minnesota woods and his life had taken a hard left into a strange, supernatural world.

"What do I have to do?"

"Call Bobby Singer," Dean said. Abe saw Dean's eyes dart toward the duo working to block the opened window, then shift back to his face. He winced inwardly when Dean's eyes hit him again. It was like looking into two open wounds. "Use my phone," Dean tilted his head to the side, indicating his leather jacket. "Tell him what's going on here."

"And then what?"

"He'll tell you."

"Why don't you call him?" Abe asked, his chest tightening in time with the bounce of muscle in Dean's jaw. He moved over to grab Dean's jacket, fishing out the silver phone.

"I'm not leaving Sam."

Abe looked at Sam as the young hunter reached for his collar again, pulling at the cotton as if the material were too tight. His raving had quieted slightly; his lips still moved incessantly, but Abe couldn't make out individual words. He flipped open Dean's phone and saw that the reception inside the safe house was non-existent. Glancing over his shoulder at the silence that now surrounded Maggie and Yeats, he met Maggie's eyes for a brief moment, then stepped from the confines of the safe house to the porch, then down the stairs.

The cool of the afternoon felt like a jolt of caffeine to his over-taxed system. A low rumble of distant thunder teased the tops of the trees and Abe looked up, letting the wind caress his warm, weary face. He heard footsteps behind him and knew it was Maggie.

"Are you going to call him?" Her voice was soft, young, uncertain. It was a side of Maggie he'd never heard before.

"Yes."

"Why?"

Abe closed his eyes. "Because Dean needs him."

"You know how I feel, Abe."

"_You_ took them in, Maggie," Abe pointed out.

She came around, squaring off in front of him and forcing him to meet her bright, unyielding eyes. "They're just kids, Abe. They didn't have anywhere else to go."

"You took them in because Bobby asked you to," Abe challenged, dropping his chin, his eyes boring into hers.

Maggie shifted her gaze away, flicking over something past his shoulder. Abe surmised that Yeats was watching this entire exchange, having not let Maggie out of his sight since they found her unconscious in her kitchen.

"Fine," she relented. "But he doesn't have to come. He can help them without coming here."

She began to turn away and Abe reached out to grab her upper arm, stopping her retreat. "Why, Maggie?"

Maggie snapped her eyes up to him and Abe found his breath stolen for the second time inside of five minutes. Without realizing it, he had caused her to expose her heart and it was more than he was ready to take in.

"Because I love the bastard," she all-but growled. "And he knows it."

Wrenching her arm out of Abe's confused grasp, she backed up a step.

"I'm going to the house to see if I can find something to calm Sam until we can figure out what to do next," she said.

"Calm him?"

Maggie nodded and looked up at Yeats as he approached quietly. "Yeats told me what happened to Jones. No way am I letting that boy rip himself apart." She sighed, then rubbed her face tiredly. "Call Bobby. Get help."

With that she turned and stalked toward the red pick-up, wrenching the driver's side door open, and grasped the steering wheel to lift herself in. Yeats followed, climbing into the passenger side and looking back at Abe with empty eyes. Abe pulled his lips in, realizing that he was looking at the personification of defeat.

As they headed up the hill to Maggie's house, Abe flipped Dean's phone open and scrolled down until he found Bobby's name.

"Please be there," Abe whispered as he felt the first fat raindrop fall on his upturned face.

"Yeah," came a rough, no-nonsense voice from the other end of the line.

Abe almost dropped the phone in relief.

"Bobby Singer?"

"Depends on who's askin'."

"You don't know me."

"No shit."

"My name is Abe Nokomis. I am a friend of Dean Winchester."

"Where is Dean?" Bobby's voice changed immediately.

It was the sound Abe had heard once before. It was a scared parent, suddenly realizing their child was not where they were supposed to be. It was a father processing the fact that he'd arrived two hours too late. It was a guardian hearing his charge had been threatened.

It was love.

"He's here, but he's hurt and Sam is…"

"Wait. Abe… from Minnesota, Abe?"

"Yes," Abe answered, surprised.

"The two wendigos, right?"

"That's right."

"What have you got?" Abe could hear Bobby moving around on the other end of the phone.

"Well, I'm not sure, but Dean said you could help."

"Boy has more faith in me than he does himself."

"Won't argue with you there," Abe said. As the rain fell harder, he stepped up to the overhang from the bar. He could see into the narrow window flanking the door through the Coors Light sign. The interior of the bar looked like a nightmare come to life.

"Start at the beginning and be quick," Bobby commanded.

Taking a deep breath, Abe said, "It started in Texas."

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Heat and darkness. They weren't supposed to go together, but both wrapped around him. Sam was sure if he could just move he could find something cool, find some air, but he kept backing into something. And it was _so hard_ to breathe.

He tried to close his eyes, but all he saw was Jess burning. He opened his eyes and all he saw was Dean bleeding. He looked to his left and his father was begging him to shoot him in the heart and then was lying on the floor of the hospital. He looked to his right and saw the silver blade of a knife slice through the flesh of Steve Wandell's neck as though it were butter.

Sam called out for Dean, for Dad, for Jess, for _someone_ to find him and wake him up. He was scared.

_I'm scared! Dean. DEAN! Dad! I'm scared. _

Fingers, tiny but strong, rolled under his skin, making him thrash with the sensation of invasion. This wasn't like before. This wasn't the same—he wasn't pushed aside as another used his body. He was trapped and forced to share his heart, his secrets. He was forced to see his darkness.

_No, but it'll hurt like hell…_Dean slamming back through a wall. Dean handing him a gun. Dean asking him if he hated him. Pulling the trigger.

The shock of that act shook him again and he tried to get away, tried to hide, felt his back hit something again, denying him escape. He closed his eyes against the sight of Dean's betrayed gaze and saw Jess surrounded by flames, stomach a slash of deep crimson, her lovely face frozen in confused terror.

_Why Sam?_

He shook his head, and felt something heavy on his chest, trying to suffocate him.

_NO! No, I can't breathe. DEAN! I can't breathe!_

He looked wildly around for his brother. His brother that had always been there. His brother that had shielded him, protected him, saved him, told him that everything was going to be all right. His brother who had never lied to him. His brother who was going to kill him.

_NO!_

Dean's crumpled face, blood trickling down his forehead, from his nose, peered up at him, pleading for release, pleading for forgiveness, pleading for safety. Sam felt his hand curl into a ball and felt the sick satisfaction settle into his heart as Dean's head snapped back with the impact of his knuckles.

_I can see it in your eyes, Dean, you're worthless…_

Shaking his head, Sam tried to claw away the fingers that climbed up the back of his neck. He felt them tickling the edges of his mind, searching.

_Stop, just stop… God, Dean, please, please make it stop…_

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"I'm trying," Dean whispered in reply to Sam's desperate plea. "Goddammit, Sammy, I'm trying."

Dean was exhausted. Beyond exhausted. His whole focus was Sam. The world could have blown up around him and he wouldn't have torn his eyes away from his little brother's wide, terrified eyes. He'd kept no more than two feet between them as Sam scrambled around the small safe house trying to escape his waking nightmare, bouncing off of furniture, slamming his back against the brick wall, ending up in the corner next to the foot of the bunk bed.

Dean was crouched in front of him, gripping Sam's wrists with both hands, leaning forward and holding them against the wall to keep Sam from doing further damage to his already scratched up face, but Sam was so _strong_ and Dean was so _tired._

"Don't let it take me... Dean, don't let it take me…"

Dean closed his eyes, lowering his forehead to Sam's. He felt his brother's breath against his face, felt the tremble beneath his fingers as Sam fought for release.

"You always were a strong little bastard," Dean grunted as he adjusted his grip. "Stubborn, too. You always knew what was best," he continued, words tumbling softly from his memory to spill over Sam's frantic form. "At least _you_ were convinced you knew. I had to make sure you thought the idea was yours in order for you to do it. Except when it came to hunting. You would always listen to me when it came to hunting. You believed me then. You _believed_ me, Sam. I need you to believe me now, man. I need you to know it's okay, you're okay. Don't let this thing win, Sam. There's light out here."

Sam bucked against him and Dean tightened his grip.

"Abe, where the hell are you?" Dean almost whimpered.

"He's staying out of the rain."

Dean jerked violently at the sound of the foreign, female voice. He looked over his shoulder and saw a woman standing in the doorway of the safe house, looking around the small area. The scent of her perfume hit him like a wave.

"Claire?" he rasped.

She pivoted on her left foot, turning to face him, her dark, straight hair wet from the storm outside, her almond-shaped eyes snapping from a storm inside, and a pink, puckered scar running from the flat of her right cheekbone down the entire length of her long, slim neck, disappearing inside the collar of her black leather jacket.

"You can't save him," she said, her voice a mockery of sadness.

"Like hell," Dean snapped automatically, wanting to release Sam's wrists and face her, but reluctant to allow Sam access to his face again.

"I have lost it," she lifted a shoulder as if she were speaking of a penny and not an insatiable evil being. "It feeds on its own now."

"Because _you_ conjured it."

Claire shook her head, stepping further into the house, running a slim finger over the top of the small, round table. "Not with intent."

"That doesn't really matter, does it?" Dean grunted with pain as Sam tried to thrash again, muttering.

"…couldn't shoot him, shot you but couldn't shoot him, you were always there and he wasn't and I couldn't shoot him but I shot you…"

Dean tried to block Sam's ravings out, but the words were like a punch to the gut. They were Sam's guilt tossing a mirror up to Dean's soul and finding all of the cracks and crevasses in the wall he'd so carefully constructed to protect Sam from himself.

"He's almost gone anyway," Claire said calmly.

"Shut up," Dean snapped.

"The ikiryoh will find all of his darkness, all of the hate he has for himself, all of his doubts, fears…"

"Shut up," Dean growled, shifting a look over his shoulder, his eyes burning, his shoulder on fire, his belly a shivering ocean of pain. _Not yet… not yet…_

"It will chew him up and when there's nothing left, it will emerge stronger than before and will tear into all of you, one by one—"

"I said _shut up_!" Dean roared, releasing Sam's arms, surging to his feet and crossing the room to back Claire up against the wall next to the door. "It is _not_ going to take Sam!"

"It already has!" Claire yelled back, her whiskey-colored eyes cold, her scar rolling and bunching as she strained forward.

Dean slammed his fist against the brick wall next to her head. "Make it stop!"

"No!"

Beyond reason, beyond calm, and beginning to fall over the edge of hope, Dean reached out a scuffed, bloody hand and wrapped his fingers around Claire's throat. It was only once he actually touched her that he believed she was flesh and blood and not a spirit.

"Make. It. STOP!"

"No," Claire whispered, challenging him to squeeze with defiant eyes.

Dean felt her scar twist beneath his fingers as the tendons in her neck tightened when she lifted her head. His stomach kicked a hot burst of pain. With a gasp, he released her, covering his belly with his left hand and backing away. Sam was rambling softly in the corner, looking wildly around the room. After a second, Dean heard his name.

"Dean, please don't go, please, I can't do this without you, you can't leave me here alone, Dean, you don't give up on me, okay?"

Dean took another step back from Claire, rubbing his face with a trembling hand.

"What happened to you?" he whispered, lifting wounded eyes to hers.

She blinked, surprise obvious on her face. "What?"

"What happened to you, Claire? How can you…_hate_ so much?"

"How can you _not_?" She returned.

_Because, I have Sam…_

Dean reached out a hand to brace himself on the table, his eyes shifting between Sam and Claire. Sam hadn't reached up to claw at his face or the back of his head again, but he was getting agitated and Dean felt time ticking away as the heat in his body rolled through him like waves, pulling at his balance as the tide captures sand.

"They raped me," Claire said suddenly and Dean brought his focus back to her marred face. She was no longer looking at him, however. Her eyes were now fixed on a figure shadowed in the doorway. "They beat me. They cut me. And they left me to die next to a dumpster in an alley."

"Oh, God…" a rough, heavy voice whispered in response.

Dean swayed, narrowing his eyes, trying to focus on the figure, but knew there was no one else it could be.

"And you let it happen," Claire finished, slamming the last nail into Yeats' coffin with finality.

"I thought… I didn't…" Yeats' voice was strangled as if he, too, were fighting the effects of the ikiryoh.

"You were there," Claire whispered.

"What?!" Maggie's incredulous voice sounded behind Yeats.

They had returned from Maggie's house apparently empty-handed to walk into a shit storm of emotion and confession. Dean would have felt sorry for Yeats if he'd had the energy. As it was, he was torn between the overwhelming urge to simply sit down on the floor where he was and give in to the call of oblivion and answering the soft keening pleas emanating from his brother.

_Not yet, Dean. Stay on your feet, soldier. Do __**not**__ stand down._

Dean took another step back, his boots sliding over the ropes that had been left behind when he and Sam escaped Sal's attempted torture fest. Cringing at the pull on his gut, he bent low and grabbed up the length of white rope. As the room filled with shocked and shaken people, Dean edged around to Sam once more.

Sam was panting, his chest heaving with an effort to breathe, his face bloody from four deep scratches down his scruffy cheeks where his desperate fingernails had sought to remove the pain. His pupils were wide and his lashes were clumped together from frantic sweat. He pushed himself further back into the corner, the pads of his fingers skipping and stuttering as they ran up and down the brick wall.

Dean felt the sting of his own knuckles where he'd hit the wall as he knelt carefully in front of his frightened brother.

"Hey, Sammy," he whispered. "It's me."

"Dean?"

"Yeah," Dean nodded with abbreviated relief. "You with me?"

"Hurts," Sam whimpered.

Dean closed his eyes briefly, then looked back at Sam. "Yeah, I know, kiddo."

The others in the room had continued to talk, but all Dean heard was Yeats' broken _I'm sorry_…

Regret was a different kind of pain. It was loneliness wrapped in the dark paper of loss and guilt. It burned with a secret fire that you can never extinguish, even with the forgiveness of others. It was the impossible forgiveness of self that would combat this pain, and Dean had no idea how to offer Sam something he didn't know how to acquire for himself.

"I can't make it stop," Sam said, his chin trembling as his voice broke. "It all keeps happening and I can see it and I can't close my eyes."

"I'm gonna make it stop, Sammy," Dean promised. "But I need you to sit real still, okay?"

"'Kay." Sam's eyes rolled back and he dropped his head forward.

Dean licked his lips, hating himself so strongly in that moment he wouldn't have been surprised if the ikiryoh abandoned Sam and climbed inside of him.

_Why you, Sammy? Why you and not me? You don't deserve this… after everything you've been through… you don't deserve this…_

Gently grasping one of Sam's hands, he looped the rope around his brother's wrist, then tied his hands together tightly.

He slid the other end of the rope through the iron bars of the bunk bed, securing Sam in place, his hands too far from his face or chest to do any true damage. Sam kept his neck bent, his chin to his chest, his body shuddering with the effort of breath. Running his hand lightly over the top of his brother's shaggy head, Dean used the wall to push himself to his feet, turning to face the trio in the room.

"You told me you saw a body," Maggie was saying, bright green eyes pinned to Yeats' face.

"I did," Yeats said, his back to Dean.

"In a morgue?" Maggie challenged.

"You made that assumption," Yeats said. "I just didn't correct you."

Maggie was shocked into silence, unable to look at Yeats. She turned to Claire. "Are you doing this?"

Claire was facing Yeats, but Dean could see her eyes off to the side of the burly bouncer's frame. They were still cold. Cold, dead, empty. As if any humanity that had once been a part of this girl had been destroyed along with her innocence.

"I am."

"Can you make it stop?" Maggie asked.

"No."

"She's lying," Dean spoke up. "No way a witch doesn't know how to control something she conjures."

Behind him Sam started whispering in bursts of short desperation. Dean heard the iron frame of the bunk bed rattle.

"I told you," Claire said, blinking her gaze over Yeats' shoulder to Dean. "It was without intent. My plan was not to bring the ikiryoh to life."

"Yeah?" Dean stepped forward, wary of his rubbery legs, squaring off his stance so his weakness was camouflaged. "So what was this master plan?"

Claire looked back at Yeats. "To kill them all."

"Who?" Maggie asked. "The ones that…attacked you?"

Claire raised an eyebrow as if to say _try to keep up_. "Everyone responsible."

"You were just a kid…" Yeats began.

"Exactly," Claire cut in. "I was a child in need of protection and when you saw what they'd done, you left me there."

"I thought you were dead!" Yeats protested. "I went after them!"

"You were wrong," Claire spat. "And you failed. But I found them. I found them all."

Sliding her slim hand into her dark jacket pocket, she drew out a ring, then tossed it at Yeats. He didn't move to catch it. The gold circlet bounced off of his body and dropped to the floor with the dim sound of a bell. Dean's eyes caught it, seeing the yellow stone reflecting in the wan overhead light of the small room.

"That's the ring from the bar," he said.

"Red Lake County Central. Spring break. 1992," Claire said. "It took me sixteen years, but I found them. And I killed them. All but two."

"Sal," Dean guessed.

"And you, _Father_."

"No…" Maggie whispered.

"How'd you do it, Claire?" Dean stepped forward once more, flanking Yeats, who was silent.

"Belladonna is very easily slipped into a drink," Claire said, watching Yeats. "The right amount will tear you up from the inside out."

Dean narrowed his eyes, thinking of the clues he and Sam had gathered in West Texas before Meg. The clues that had led them to think it was a Death Spirit. They had been wrong. It had been Claire and the start of the ikiryoh.

"What about the hunter in Nebraska?" Dean pressed, stepping in front of Yeats, drawing Claire's eyes.

"How did you know about him?"

"He wasn't part of your plan, was he?"

"He's none of your business," Claire's eyes sparked a quick shot of life.

"And Jones? Was he part of your plan?"

"He was in the way," Claire tilted her head defiantly so that her scar stood out starkly against the light.

"What about Sam?" Dean yelled. "Was _Sam_ in the way?"

"I told you!" Claire yelled back. "I _lost it_. I used it until it grew beyond my power."

"Well, you goddamn better _find it_ again!" Dean stepped close enough that he could feel Claire's cool breath on the heated skin of his neck. "Because it's killing my brother and I _won't_ let that happen."

"Dean!"

Abe's voice was as welcome as a safety parachute in a freefall. Dean stared down at Claire, trembling with anger and pain, his hands aching to reach out and grasp her shoulders to shake her, force her to somehow stop the ikiryoh.

"Tell me you've got something," Dean ground out to Abe, willing himself to stay steady.

"I've got something."

The relief that washed through Dean made him weak. His knees shook and he would have fallen if Maggie hadn't reached out to grab his arm, easing him away from Claire and helping him to the chair closest to Sam.

"Well?" Maggie prompted, crouching next to Sam and checking the ropes binding his hands to the bed.

Dean lifted his burning eyes to Abe's face, watching as the Ojibwa shot his gaze from Claire to Yeats and finally to Sam's tied up form on the floor next to Dean.

"We treat Sam with pilocarpine," Abe said. "I had some in my truck—had to wait until Maggie and Yeats brought it back."

"So that's what took you so long," Dean whispered, watching Abe nod. "What's it gonna do?"

"The ikiryoh is mirroring the effects of belladonna poisoning based on the method it was summoned. The pilocarpine will combat those effects."

"That won't stop the ikiryoh," Claire announced.

"No," Abe shook his head and Dean bit his lip with a slow shake of his head to keep from groaning with helpless frustration. "For that, we have two choices."

"_And_?" Dean barked, rolling his hand impatiently in the air.

"We trap it in the host—"

"No fucking way," Dean declared with a decisive shake of his head.

"—or we kill the source."

"The source?" Yeats asked, speaking for the first time since he'd tried unsuccessfully to defend his actions.

"Claire," Dean guessed.

"The ikiryoh is summoned by one with great hatred and takes the form of that hatred—in this case, Claire's lost childhood," Abe said.

Dean looked at Claire, who impassively watched Yeats.

"You're not killing my daughter," Yeats stated flatly.

"We're not trapping it inside my brother, either," Dean returned.

Yeats turned away from Claire, facing Dean.

"She's been through enough!"

Dean stood so suddenly the backs of his knees shot the chair away from him, tumbling it across the floor and causing Sam to shrink back and cry out.

"What, and Sam hasn't?" Dean bellowed. "Y'know, it's really interesting that you could dump her when she was a kid and now you're all about the father role. Sam's not going to pay for your screw up."

Yeats stepped up to him, his gray eyes flinty. "He's a hunter! He knows the risks!"

"She's a fucking _witch_! She _murdered_ people!" Dean shoved his face close to Yeats, fury finding strength where fever had stolen it away.

"Because of what _I_ did!"

"Not my problem, man! Sam is _not_ paying for your mistake!"

"I'll kill you myself before I let you touch her," Yeats drew his hand back, fingers curled into a meaty fist.

"HEY!" Abe pushed his way between the two hunters, shoving Yeats from Dean with an upper arm against his larynx. Dean stumbled back, shaken, dizzy. "No one is killing anyone."

"Well, not now anyway," Maggie pointed out from her crouched position next to Sam.

Dean looked at her, terrified for a moment that Sam had succumbed to the power of the ikiryoh when he hadn't been watching. Maggie sat next to Sam, her arms wrapped around his gasping, trembling body, her strong, work-roughened hand stroking a ceaseless pattern of comfort across Sam's furrowed brow.

"What?" Dean panted, wanting to curl in on himself to ease the fire in his belly.

Maggie looked pointedly behind Yeats. Dean, Yeats, and Abe followed her gaze to see an empty room. Claire was gone.

"_Dammit,_" Dean breathed.

Abe's shoulders shifted with breath. Keeping a hand on Dean's arm, he looked over at Yeats. "You, get out of here and cool off."

Yeats glared at Dean, then looked down at Sam. Without another word, he turned and stalked out of the small house.

"Maggie," Abe angled his head her way. "We're going to need your help."

"I'm not going anywhere," Maggie said, still soothing Sam.

"I swear if I hadn't touched her, I'd think that girl was a spirit," Dean muttered, looking at the empty space where Claire had been standing moments ago.

"She's not," Abe said, turning Dean and guiding him to the single bed. He pushed Dean down so that he sat, slumped, on the mattress. "Bobby told me that she's wanted for the murders of Sean Harper and Lewis Wells. The cops in Oklahoma and Nebraska have her description and everything."

"What about that hunter back at the _Roadhouse_?"

"Emerson Frye," Abe said, leaning over the bunk bed to untie Sam. "I gotta hand it to Bobby. In two phone calls, he gave me more than I found after a month or so of searching."

Dean lifted a shoulder. "What can I tell you, man, he's been at this a long time."

"Uh-huh," Abe slid the rope free, untying Sam's hands as he slumped into Maggie's arms. "And maybe some of us just aren't cut out for this."

"Maybe," Dean rubbed his face, watching as Abe and Maggie lifted Sam from the ground and moved him to the bottom bunk. "Do you want this bed?"

"You stay there," Abe commanded. "You're as white as a sheet. I don't want you passing out on me."

"I'm fine," Dean said automatically, his face tightening as Sam searched the room with wide eyes.

Ignoring Abe's order, Dean slid from the bed to his knees, slumping low to shield his belly from the sting the movement caused, and shuffled close to the lower bunk. He was at Sam's head the moment Maggie stepped away.

"Hey, Sammy."

"I'm sorry, Dean," Sam's broken voice cut into Dean, deeper than any bullet.

"Nothin' to be sorry for, man."

"I hurt so many people," Sam twisted away from him, his back arching up as he gasped for breath. "I did it. I did it all. I killed them." He thrust his feet out, kicking Abe away. "I killed them."

Dean leaned close, his hands automatically going to Sam's arms, keeping his brother's hands away from his already wounded face. "Who are you talking about, Sam?"

"I killed them…"

"Sammy…"

"God, Dean—" Sam jerked twice, as if convulsing. His dilated eyes searched the dimly lit room as if for absolution.

Dean ground his teeth, tightening his grip. "_You_ didn't kill anybody, man. 'Cept the monsters, okay?"

Sam bucked against his arms and to his horror, Dean felt the skin beneath his hands ripple as though something other than muscles were rolling under the surface. Swallowing the sudden rush of bile, he shot a look over his shoulder to a stone-faced Abe.

"Where's that stuff you said would help him?"

"It's not going to stop it."

Sam cried out again, nearly twisting out of Dean's hands.

"_Son of a bitch_," Dean cursed as his brother's thrashing pulled his belly roughly up against the edge of the bottom bunk. He felt Maggie's hand on his shoulder, knew she was about to ease him away. "Don't touch me," he growled jerking his shoulder free.

"Stay with him, Dean," Abe said softly, approaching from the side.

"What the hell does it look like I'm doing?" Dean snapped.

"No, I mean, _hold him_," Abe said. "The effects of belladonna poisoning are slowly devastating but reversing them is like… a sudden rush of blood to the head only ten times worse."

"Okay, I got it, I got it," Dean said, pulling himself painfully up next to the bed, adjusting his grip on Sam so that he could hold him to the bed with the flat of his arm.

"It's a serum," Abe said, hesitating.

Dean shot a look to Abe, speaking volumes with his eyes.

"Right," Abe said, taking a breath. He leaned over, gripping the bottom of Sam's jaw, then tapped two clear drops onto Sam's tongue from a small green bottle.

For a moment nothing happened and then Sam's eyes flew open. He convulsed violently, shoving Abe away, loosening Dean's grip, grabbing air like a drowning man. Dean curled his fingers into Sam's shirt, closing his eyes as Sam's motion tore at the cauterized wound in his belly and the torn skin on his injured shoulder. Groaning low in his throat, Dean buried his face on the pillow in the crook of space between Sam's head and his shoulder as the world spun crazily around him, threatening to spill him over the edge.

The only thing holding him together in that moment was the same thing that was ripping him apart.

Suddenly, Sam stilled. He was so quiet that for a split second Dean was afraid to open his eyes. Then Sam's breathing eased and Dean realized that his brother's T-shirt was soaked through with sweat. He lifted his face cautiously to see Sam's eyes facing him, no longer dilated, but no less tragic.

"Sam?" Dean whispered.

Sam swallowed. "I'm so sorry, Dean."

"Hey," Dean pulled back slightly, forcing his fingers to open and release Sam's sweaty T-shirt. "Nothing to be sorry for, man."

"All this… all this… everything you've been through… it's my fault," Sam whispered.

Dean wasn't conscious of Abe or Maggie. He wasn't aware of the rain outside. He ignored the sticky wetness creeping across his belly. His only focus was the eyes of his brother, now filling with tears. _Aw, Jesus Sammy…_

"How do you figure?" Dean forced out past the grip around his throat.

"Mom… died in my room. Because it was after me—"

"We don't know that."

"Dad… turned you into a soldier to keep me safe—"

"I got to play with guns."

"You never had a childhood, never had a real life…"

"Hey, I have a life. I got my car, my kid brother, some kick-ass music—"

"Jess died because of me. And Wandell… And all those people we couldn't save—"

"What about the ones that are _alive_ because of you? What about them, huh?"

"Doesn't matter…what I do doesn't matter…"

"Sam."

"I watched myself shoot you… watched myself hit you… heard my voice—"

"Sam!"

"I am going to turn into something awful… Dad told you… and you will have to kill me and what is that going to do to you… how are you going to survive that…"

"SAM!"

Sam jerked, blinking. Anger spiked so fast that Dean didn't take time to think. He simply reacted. Logic told him it was the ikiryoh talking, but part of him knew that somewhere inside, Sam believed what he was saying. And that made him angry.

"_That's enough_!" Dean ground out, pushing away from the bunk, using the iron rail to pull himself to his feet. "You want to beat yourself up for this? Fine! You shot me. You beat the shit out of me. You found the cracks and you dug your fingers in. And man, I was pissed. _Pissed_! But that's enough, okay?"

Sam lifted himself to his elbows, staring at Dean, tears streaming down his face. Dean knew they were more a product of the pilocarpine than real emotion, but they still got to him.

"If you really cared about me, you'd believe me. You'd forgive yourself because I was never mad at you."

"You—you just said you were pissed…"

"But, not at you," Dean finished, softly. "Never at _you_."

"You can't tell me it didn't hurt," Sam challenged. "I saw your face when the demon was inside Dad. I saw it break you, man. I know I did the same thing."

"Dad isn't you," Dean replied simply. "I won't forget what happened, Sam. Any more than that burn on your arm is going to let you forget."

Sam twisted his right arm over, eyes on the healing burn.

"But I could never hate you, man. And I stopped being mad at you about an hour after I realized you were missing."

Sam looked back at Dean, lower lip trembling with tears and hope. "You mean it?"

Dean closed his eyes, seeing the child he raised and not the man Sam had become. "I promise," he whispered, remembering a time very recently when he said those words to Sam with a completely different intent. "I have never meant _anything_ as much as I mean this."

Sam dropped his head back.

"If anything," Dean continued, "you should be mad at me."

"Wha—" Sam started, then cried out as his skin rippled under his T-shirt, crawling up his chest to his throat. "Oh, _fuck_…"

Abe stepped up next to the bed. Dean had completely forgotten he was still there.

"What do we do?" Dean asked.

"We have to stop the ikiryoh," Abe said. "The pilocarpine will only stall the effects."

"We're _not_ trapping it inside of Sam," Dean declared. "It'll kill him."

"Dean," Sam gasped, reaching up for Dean's arm. "Will… will it die, too?"

"Forget it, Sam."

"Dean—"

"I said _forget it_! No fucking way am I letting you be some noble martyr thinking it's going to make a difference. You're staying _with me_, you got that?"

Sam dropped his hand from Dean's arm, reaching for the collar of his shirt. "Can't _breathe_."

"Son of a bitch," Dean breathed, closing his eyes again and reaching for the top bunk bed frame as the room swayed slowly around him. "In and out, Sam. Slow and easy, okay?"

"'Kay."

"You fight this, Sam. You hear me? You _fight_ this." Dean opened his eyes to watch Sam's face twist with effort.

"I… I hear you."

"How much of that stuff can we give him?" Dean asked, turning to face Abe.

"I have no idea," Abe confessed.

"We have to find Claire," Maggie said.

Dean turned to look at her. She stood against the wall, one hand across her middle, the other pressed against her lips. Her face was pale, making her blonde hair appear more gold than yellow. Her eyes were steady, determined.

"You know Yeats will fight us," Dean said.

Maggie dropped her hand, licking her lips. Dean blinked, watching tracks of emotions leave footprints in their wake as they journeyed across her storied face. _He's been with me a long time… Yeats would lie down in traffic for Maggie… He gets a little protective…_

"I know," she said finally. "But I'm not letting another innocent life pay the price for a mistake he made thirty years ago." She pushed away from the wall, sliding past Dean, trailing her hand across Abe's back as if to steady herself. "He should never have denied that girl a father."

With that parting line, she stepped from the safe house and out into the rain. Abe lifted the chair Dean had knocked over earlier and set it next to Sam's bed. Dean sank into it gratefully.

"You still with me?" Abe asked him.

Dean nodded.

"You don't look so good, Dean."

"I'll be fine as soon as we fix this."

Sam pulled at his shirt again and Dean reached for his brother's hands once more, stopping with a hiss of pain and curling his arm across his belly.

"Don't move," Abe said, reached down to the foot of the bed and grabbing the rope there.

He pulled out his survival knife and cut the length in half, then slid his knife back into its sheath. Softly crooning words that Dean couldn't understand, Abe leaned over Sam, tying his hands to either side of the iron bed, down at his sides where he couldn't harm himself.

Sam twisted and whimpered, closing his eyes tightly. Abe opened Sam's mouth once more, placing another clear drop on Sam's tongue. With a shudder and a gasp Sam relaxed and seemed to almost doze in reaction.

"He's gotta be beat," Dean commented, watching.

"Dean, I need to help you."

"You are helping," Dean said, keeping his eyes on his sweaty, slumbering brother. He couldn't sit up straight without shaking visibly from the pain. He gripped the edge of the chair with this right hand, leaning into that grip, and held his left tightly against his stomach.

"Let me check your wound."

"No." The thought of anyone touching his belly at this moment made him dizzy and nauseous. He suppressed a shiver.

"Can I get you some aspirin?"

Dean opened his mouth to deny again, but changed his mind. He needed to be vigilant for Sam and the pain was making him fuzzy. "Yeah," he said, relenting, looking up at Abe. "And some coffee."

"You need to rest."

"I will," Dean promised. "Soon as I know he's okay."

"And what happens if you're not okay?"

Dean simply looked at him, not bothering to answer. Abe turned away and Dean knew he heard the word _stubborn_ mingled in his mutterings.

"I have to go up to Maggie's for the aspirin," Abe said, pausing in the opened doorway.

"Fine."

"We'll find Claire, Dean."

"We better," Dean said, his eyes once more on Sam.

www

_It's all you… you did all of this…_

No. Dean said no and I believe him.

_You killed them… they're dead because of you…_

And others are alive because of me.

_It's dark in here._

I can see light.

_You hurt him. You tried to kill him._

He doesn't blame me. He forgives me.

_You killed a hunter. Slit his throat._

I…

_Slit his throat._

Shut up. Go away.

_Felt his blood on your hands._

Go away go away go away.

_It's getting darker._

I can still see light. You can't take the light from me. You can't take him from me.

_You scare him._

He won't leave me.

_You'll be the death of him._

No.

_He's gonna die because of you._

No. No, he'll live. You can't take him from me. He asked me to fight. He ordered me to fight.

_You don't obey orders._

I do now.

www

The room was silent save Sam's labored breathing. The rain was soft outside, soaking the edge of the porch and the steps but not breeching the opened door. The clean, fresh smell of the water smacking the earth and raising tufts of mud in miniature eruptions conflicted with the heavy, guilt-ridden sweat that rolled from Sam due to the pilocarpine.

Dean sat very still, watching Sam's chest rise and fall, listening to the muted static of the rain, feeling the rough rub of his own clothes against his fevered skin. He could sense his strength escaping as the minutes ticked past. He could feel the heat build in his belly and knew that avoiding treatment for the sake of Sam was going to come back and bite him in the ass, but he could do nothing else.

"Why did it take you, huh?" Dean whispered, his dry lips cracking slightly with the motion of speech. "Why not me?"

None of them were without guilt. Without darkness. To Dean, he was darker than Sam ever hoped to be. Dean knew how to turn off his emotions in the moment, knew how to do what needed to be done now and convince himself later that it was what he'd wanted to do all along. He knew how to shove deep the need for validation, the need for encouragement, the simple need to be loved and appreciated.

But Sam… Sam wore that need like a beacon in the dark. It was plain for all to see. Dean's eyes slid closed of their own volition. Weariness was a shadow that was growing in strength and density. He could almost reach out and touch it.

_Shoulda seen your face when you thought he killed that guy… pathetic._

Dean's eyes shot open. Sam hadn't been vulnerable then. His face has been twisted and angry. His features had become hard and cold. With a shiver, Dean realized that though Meg and been controlling Sam, his brother was indeed capable of those expressions. Of the right level of stoicism so that even Dean had trouble reading the cards he'd kept close to his chest.

It was a frightening thought. If Sam was destined to become something evil—something Dean couldn't defeat—Dean suspected he'd look just like he had when Meg had taken him. Dean rubbed a hot, dry hand over his mouth. How was he going to save Sam from something neither of them wanted to believe could happen?

"Kinky," came a high-pitched voice from the doorway. "Didn't know you two were into bondage."

Dean jerked at the sound, grunting with pain as his stomach protested.

"Son of a bitch," Dean growled, his eyes first hitting the barrel of his silver .45, then traveling up the wet, muddy arm of Sal Jeffers to hit the hustler's bruised face, his thinning hair plastered unattractively to his scalp. "They'll let anyone in here these days."

"Where is Jones?" Sal demanded, edging through the doorway toward Dean's duffel sitting on the kitchen table.

"Dead." Dean knew he needed to stand. But he was having a hard time convincing his legs. _Get up… get up… __**now**_

"You're lying."

"Dude, he's dead. Go see for yourself," Dean waved his right hand toward the bar. "He's in the _Hideout_ with his chest ripped open."

"Right, where some alien creature climbed out of it, huh?" Sal kept Dean's empty gun pointed at him, fishing through the duffel with his other hand.

"I see you ran into Lloyd," Dean guessed.

"Just tell me what the hell is going on here," Sal demanded.

"Or you'll what? Shoot me with an empty gun?" Dean gripped the back of the chair, pushing himself carefully upwards.

"Won't be empty for long…" Sal muttered, taking his eyes off Dean to look into the duffel.

"Won't find what you're looking for in there," Dean informed him.

Sal's eyes lit up and he tossed Dean's gun to the ground, reaching into the bag and grabbing Sam's Glock. Dean pulled his lips tight against his teeth.

"Wouldn't be too sure about that," Sal crowed. "You boys don't mess around do you? This baby don't even have a safety on it."

"What do you want, there, Bubba?"

Sal narrowed his eyes, waving the gun in Dean's direction. "I want my money back. And I want you boys gone."

Dean closed his eyes, shaking his head. "You really have no idea what's going on here, do you?"

"I know I got a friend in jail now because he was raving about Gollum crawling out of Jones' chest and apparently I got another friend gutted inside the bar. Guess that means the money's all mine."

Dean took a shaky step forward. "You remember a coupla guys named Sean, Lewis… Liam… that ringin' any bells there, Sal?"

Sal blinked. "What?"

"Spring break… Texas… 1992… anything?"

Sal started to lower the Glock, confusion plain on his face. "How do you…"

"You guys attacked a girl. Raped her. Thought you killed her."

"Holy shit," Sal breathed.

For a heartbeat, Dean felt sympathy for the hustler. He didn't know the whole story—didn't know who specifically was responsible for hurting Claire sixteen years ago. Mistakes that happen in the heat of the moment can be erased and even forgotten in the effort to live.

Then, a blink later, sympathy was chased away by disgust as Sal's lips twisted into a feral grin. "I remember that bitch. Jap chick? Wanted it bad. Lewis got a little anxious with the knife. But man, was she good."

"Good enough to track down your friends," Dean informed him. He took another step forward, ignoring the barrel of the gun as Sal jerked it up once more. "Good enough to kill them all."

"What?"

"They're dead, Sal. All three of them." The world tilted, making forward motion a challenge. Dean held fast, searching for a reserve of strength that would keep him on his feet. "She's… after you next."

"So?" Sal lifted a nervous shoulder. "Not like she's gonna find me way the hell out here."

"She already has," Dean took another step forward, eyes pinned on Sal's beady, nervous gaze. "She's here, Sal. She's gonna find you, too."

"My ass," Sal shot back. "Give me the fuckin' money and I'm outta here." Sal leveled the weapon on Dean's chest.

The world around Dean slowed. He heard the beating of his heart, the sound of Sam's breath, the fall of the rain. He reached out in the empty space between one heartbeat and the next and smacked the barrel of the Glock to the side. Sal lunged for Dean and instinct brought Dean's hands up in time to deflect the blow.

Time resumed its normal cadence and Dean felt Sal slam him back against the brick wall next to the opened door, next to the foot of Sam's bed. Dean cried out, and as his sight fled with a white flash of pain, Dean went crazy.

His arms lashed out, legs scrambled, fingers clawed, teeth gnashed. He no longer heard Sal's insults or cries, he simply fought like a wild thing. He felt the flash of wetness on his belly spread, but ignored it for the kill. He wanted to rip Sal's throat out with his bare hands.

"You bastard…" Dean panted, slamming his bruised fist into Sal's face. "You don't deserve the last sixteen years." His fist crunched cartilage in Sal's nose. "I saved your worthless life…"

Sal's ring caught Dean across the mouth with a backhand and the world spun again, sending Dean to the floor. The flash of adrenalin abandoned him quickly and as clarity began to return, he realized he was suddenly losing the fight.

_If it's the last thing I do, I'm going to save you… _

"Sam…"

Sal was panting. "Sam's tied to the fuckin' bed," he growled, blood streaming down his face, from his nose. He reared his fist back. "No one's going to help you now."

The sudden growl was amplified by the rain and a blur of wet fur flew through the doorway into the room. Dean echoed Lobo's ferocity and slammed his foot into Sal's middle, shoving the hustler to the center of the room where Lobo attacked, sinking his teeth into Sal's arm and dragging him further away from Dean.

Sal screamed and thrashed, but Lobo shook his head rapidly, mouth still clamped firmly on Sal's arm, tossing Sal's ample body across the floor like a rag doll. Dean lay on the ground next to Sam's bed, panting, aching, bleeding. He watched the wolf-dog release Sal's arm, his large front paws planted firmly on Sal's chest, his teeth dripping saliva and blood as he lowered his mouth to Sal's throat.

"Lobo, no!" Abe's voice echoed through the small space.

The animal froze, his dangerous teeth inches from Sal's throat, the wet fur along his back standing at attention, his growl competing with the thunder that gained strength and momentum as the battle inside the small safe house paused.

"Don't kill him yet," Abe said softly. Lobo didn't move. Sal whimpered. "Easy… easy boy…"

"Get him offa me!" Sal tried to push away and Lobo leaned closer to his throat.

"Keep your mouth shut and stay very still," Abe instructed Sal.

Dean tried to get to his knees, but his body denied him. He was spent. Used up. Shaking from fever chills wracking his body and exhaustion from fending off Sal's attack. He was able only to roll to his side and relieve the pressure on his now-bleeding belly. As he did, something under the bed caught his eye.

"Lobo…" Abe breathed. "You _gii-mino-izhichige_."

Dean could only see Abe's boots and jean-clad legs from his vantage point. He didn't understand the softly spoken words, but he sensed Lobo responding.

"He _ayaa_."

Abe carefully approached the animal, resting a steady hand on Lobo's back. Dean watched as Lobo's large paws eased off Sal's chest, and the wolf-dog sat next to Abe. Dean's eyes slid closed once more the weight of them impossible to deny.

"Lemme go!" Sal whined.

"I am not finished with you," Abe returned.

Dean opened his eyes again, seeing once more the glint of light in the corner beneath the single bed. Taking a breath, he focused on the reflection, pulling himself along the floor by his right arm and left hand. As he got closer to Sam's bed he heard his brother's raspy breath and smelled the heated sweat that soaked through Sam and into the sheets beneath him. He raised his eyes and saw with regret the raw marks on Sam's wrists where his brother had strained against the ropes holding his hands against the bed.

"What the hell?!" Sal squeaked.

"You have much to pay for," Abe grunted.

Dean couldn't see what Abe was doing, but didn't take his focus from reaching the reflected light at the head of the single bed. Something told him he knew what it was. That this was the answer to his question of why Sam had been vulnerable to the ikiryoh's attack.

"Are you nuts, man? What are you—" The rest of Sal's tirade was lost as Abe muffled his protests with something just as Dean's outstretched hand closed over the object.

Sam's charm.

"Son of a bitch," Dean whispered. "God, Sammy… what where you thinking?!"

He rolled to his back, the charm clutched in his fist, his hand resting on his sternum. He felt a heat in his hand. Swallowing, he lifted the small charm, looking at the carved eagle on one side, rubbing his thumb on the smooth surface of the other. Taking a breath he grabbed the edge of the iron bed and pulled himself up to a slumped, seated position.

Blinking slowly, he looked over at Sam. His brother's eyes were open, his lips tinged slightly blue from his struggle for breath.

"Sam?" Dean's voice was barely his own. "Sammy?"

"Still… here…" Sam panted, his eyes his own as he watched Dean's face. "Still… here, Dean."

"Don't you leave me, man." He meant it as an order but heard the plea in his voice.

"You… either."

Dean shivered, opening Sam's hand and rolling the charm into his brother's fingers. He closed Sam's hand around the small piece of metal, then curled his fist around Sam's.

_Okay… now…_

In that moment, Dean surrendered, allowing the greedy fingers of dark that had been tapping the edge of his consciousness for hours to gather him inside their grip. He slumped forward, his forehead against Sam's shoulder, his body against the wall.

www

Abe shoved the sock he'd pulled from one of the duffel bags—unsure and uncaring if the garment was dirty or clean—into Sal's mouth, silencing him. The straps of the duffel bag, cut free with the use of the survival knife, had served nicely as ropes to hold Sal's arms behind him and trap his feet together. Lobo kept his eyes pinned to Dean's assailant, his growl ever-present.

Sal finally silent, Abe stepped back, looking at the damage done to the hustler both by Dean and by Lobo. He would need medical attention before too long. But that could wait until he'd taken care of the boys.

Abe's heart thudded twice in his chest. _Oh, God… the boys_.

He'd always had keen instincts when it came to hunting, always known when danger loomed, when he needed to dodge left rather than right. As he turned to face the sight behind him, he knew that the danger he sensed this time was not for him.

Dean's profile was as white as the sheets his brother lay upon. His head rested on Sam's shoulder, his body curved against the frame of the bed and the wall. Sam was barely breathing, his fists clenched tight, his eyes closed.

"No," Abe shook his head in denial. "Not again…"

He stepped away from Sal, trusting Lobo to keep him in line, and crossed to the brothers. Crouching in front of Dean, Abe gently turned the young man's face toward him. The heat of Dean's skin shocked him. He pressed anxious fingers against Dean's neck and felt the answering thrum of Dean's heartbeat.

"Good, good," Abe nodded. Shifting to the side of the hunter, Abe slid his arms beneath Dean's, hefting him up against his chest, then leveraged him momentarily to his feet before turning and laying him on the spare bed next to Sam.

Dean didn't stir. Didn't so much as blink. Lifting Dean's legs onto the bed, Abe saw the tale-tell splotch of red seeping through the bandages on Dean's belly.

"Mmmrpphh!" Sal exclaimed.

Abe glanced up briefly to see that Lobo had inched forward until he was barely inches from Sal's face, teeth bared. Turning from Dean momentarily, Abe checked Sam's pulse. It was rapid, matching the shallow pants of breath that keened through Sam's parted, dry lips. Abe blinked in surprise to see that Sam's eyes were open.

"Sam?"

"Help… .him…" Sam panted.

"I'm going to."

"Needs… him…"

Abe leaned closer. "Who does he need, Sam?"

Sam closed his eyes and Abe thought he heard the word _Dad_ slip through his lips, but thunder blocked out coherence. Rubbing his mouth, Abe looked between the two brothers, torn about who to go to first. Dean's wound needed care; his fever was high. But the ikiryoh was tearing Sam up from the inside out.

Abe bent down and looked at Sam's fisted hands. The ropes had rubbed his wrists raw. He needed to put some padding between the ropes and Sam's skin if he planned on keeping him tied up much longer. Quickly sliding the knot free, Abe eased Sam's hand loose, rubbing circulation back into the young man's fingers. As he did, a small charm fell out and landed on Sam's chest.

Sam gasped a deep, lung-filling breath. His skin shimmied with motion under the surface.

Frowning, Abe picked up the charm and Sam resumed his quick panting. Turning the charm over Abe blinked in astonishment at the sight of the carved image of the eagle.

_"Migizi…"_

Pulling a slim leather strap from around his neck, Abe removed the thin silver bangle he'd kept there since Ailen's death—he'd removed it from her wrist before they took her away—and transferred the charm onto the strap, sliding the bangle on his own wrist. Next, he gently lifted Sam's head, sliding the leather strap around his neck and resting the charm against Sam's chest once more.

Sam's breathing eased immediately. As it did, color began to return to his face and his eyes flew open. The ikiryoh trapped inside of him thrashed and writhed, causing Sam's body to jerk and twist, but Abe saw life return to the boy's eyes.

"She's back," Maggie's voice announced from the open doorway. "Claire's back."

"I wonder if she ever left," Abe said softly. "Where is she?"

"In the bar." Maggie said, approaching the beds. "With Yeats."

"He's barricaded them in there, hasn't he?"

Maggie stepped around Abe to stand between the brothers. She covered her mouth with a trembling hand. "God, Abe, what have we done to them?"

Sam groaned, keeping his eyes on Abe, his neck tightening as his skin rippled from the ikiryoh's hands.

"We need help," Abe said softly.

"Bobby's on his way," Maggie looked at him.

"You called him?"

Maggie looked down at Dean, sinking down to sit next to him on the bed without answering. She brushed a hand over his bruised face, stroking an imaginary hair from his forehead. Abe watched, seeing Dean shiver with fever, his lips trembling with confession of pain he would never voice while conscious.

"He needs a hospital," Maggie said in a tight voice as she lifted Dean's T-shirt, easing the sodden padding of the bandage away from his wound.

"I know someone that can bring the hospital here," Abe said, thinking of Doc. "But that's not going to help Sam."

Lowering the bandage back into place, Maggie looked over at Sal, tied up in the corner, guarded by Lobo. She shot a glance over her shoulder at the bar, then rested her eyes on Sam's face. Abe watched Sam look back at her, as if challenging her to voice the thoughts that balanced on the razor's edge of decision.

"I have an idea," Maggie announced.

* * *

a/n: Thanks for reading—more to be revealed in the next chapter. It's pretty much the pivotal one of the story. I hope to see you back! Slainte. 

Ojibwa translations:

"You _gii-mino-izhichige"_ means "You have done well."

"He _ayaa_" means "He is safe."

_Migizi_ means eagle


	6. Glimpse

**Disclaimer/Spoilers**: See Chapter 1

a/n: Okay, no more whining about RL. Promise. And I know I just barely squeaked under the wire with my two-week guarantee, but it's here, yeah? I really hope ya'll like this chapter. It was oddly therapeutic to write. And it's confirmed—my six chapter outline has now grown to my standard eight chapters. Hope that is okay with everyone…

Kelly, you rock. Thanks for being a speed-demon. Or speed-angel. Take your pick.

* * *

_"As you would for me, oh, I would share your load.  
Let me share your load. Ooh, let me share, share your load."_

_-- Led Zeppelin, "In the Light"_

_"We're gonna figure this out, okay? I mean, there's got to be a way, right?" _

www

A confusing tangle of power shot through it. 

The power wasn't tangible; it couldn't hold on. 

_Light. _Light was around it. Sickening it. Weakening it.

Power was there. Darkness was there.It could feel the horrid rush, but not grab hold. It could feel the tremble, but not use it. It could feel… hope. 

And it was scared.

Fear the likes of which the being had never known took seed and made it desperate, renewing its struggle for survival. Now that it had tasted life, death was not an option.

It screamed.

www

Sam's back bowed upward, the tendons in his neck launching as if pulled taut by an outside source. His lips flattened against his teeth and his eyes pressed tightly closed, but he kept the scream inside. He heard it, he _felt_ it, and he denied it.

"…more of the pilocarpine, okay? Just hang in there…"

Abe's voice faded in with rushed need and Sam panted, feeling tears of pain and effort leak from the corners of his eyes and trail down his temples to his already sweat-matted hair. He curled his fingers against his palms in fists of determination, pulling ineffectually against the ropes lashing his wrists to the bed frame.

"Sam," Abe's voice whispered across his ears.

Sam was unable to speak, knowing if he opened his mouth to do more than breathe the ikiryoh's scream would shake him apart.

"I'm going to open your mouth, okay?" Abe narrated. "Two drops…there."

The heat in his head was dizzying and immediate. Sam felt the rush of blood swarm his vision and the vertigo threaten to tip him over the edge of awareness into oblivion. He panted, pushing back the darkness, knowing if he fell the being inside of him would win.

He felt the slam of his heart begin to slow, the constant buzzing in his ears fade, the gray of his hesitant vision sharpening to bring edges and details into focus.

"Dean?" Sam croaked.

"He's here," Abe assured him.

"Help… him…" Sam swallowed, his throat parched.

"Thirsty?" Abe guessed.

Sam nodded. He felt rather than saw motion off to his left and heard the water in the sink tap turn on. He could hear another sound—a low rumble of a dog's growl and the answering whimper of fear. 

_Sal…Lobo…Maggie…an idea…_

"Do it," Sam whispered, staring directly into Maggie's bright green eyes as she bent over him with the glass of water.

"Do what, honey?" Maggie answered, cupping the back of his neck and raising his head off of the pillow and resting the edge of the glass on his lower lip. Sam let the cool, sweet liquid caress his lips and tongue before swallowing and coating his raw throat.

"Trap it," Sam gasped, dropping his head back onto the pillow.

"What?" Abe stepped into Sam's line of sight.

"Trap it… in me…" Sam pushed out. "Then help… Dean." He rolled his head to the side so that his eyes rested on his silent brother.

"No, Sam," Abe replied adamantly. 

"Abe—"

"No!" Abe barked. "I do that I may as well put a bullet in your brother's head right now."

Sam closed his eyes, knowing Abe was right. But he was scared. He could feel the being rolling inside of him, feel greedy fingers pull at his heart, his mind, digging deep fertilizing seeds of doubt and darkness that had gone dormant long ago. 

_Time… not enough, too much, going too fast…Need more…_

Opening his eyes, Sam looked at Dean. His brother lay with his face turned slightly to the right. If Dean opened his eyes, Sam would be staring right into the secrets camouflaged by the green irises. Dean's face was pale, lashes clumping together as they rested on the hollow of his eyes. Bruises baring evidence of the struggle this week had been framed his cheek and brow like wings and Sam could see the rapid rise and fall of his chest as his body fought against the heat eating it up.

"Ch-check him…'gain…" Sam pleaded, hating his weakness, hating his need, hating himself. The screaming slid into a low hum inside and Sam longed to dig at his chest, dig the being out, rid himself of the feel of it.

Maggie turned to Dean and Sam could see her worry in the set of her shoulders and the swift motion of her sturdy fingers. She grasped the edge of Dean's T-shirt and pulled it up. Sam heard the _shuck_ of the wet cotton pulling away from the sodden bandage. Maggie _tsk_ed and caught her lower lip between her teeth.

"It's not good," she whispered. "You said you know someone?" Sam saw her look up at Abe, taking the blade he offered and sliding the sliver edge of the knife beneath Dean's bandages, cutting them away from the muscles across his brother's belly.

"Yeah, I know someone," Abe said. "He wouldn't get here…in time, but he could tell me what to get."

Sam could smell the heat radiating off Dean as the bandages were pulled away. Maggie sucked in her breath and Abe swore.

"Dammit, how did it get so bad so fast?"

"Well, that swim in the river didn't help," Maggie said softly, tossing the bloody bandages to the side of the bed, near Lobo and Sal. 

Sam saw her look to the side, toward where he knew Sal was tied up. He couldn't see Sal from where he lay, and he was unwilling to pull his eyes away from Dean's face. He studied it for the slightest change, the slightest movement, the slightest indication that Dean was coming back to him, that his eyes were going to open and everything would be okay again.

"Bringing me back to my idea," Maggie continued, lifting her face to Abe. "We transfer the spirit into Sal."

Sam jerked. Sal let out a muffled screech and Lobo's growl spiked slightly.

"How?" Abe asked, dubious. 

"Use those…mantras," Maggie said. 

"Sutras," Sam rasped.

"Right."

"I don't know," Abe said and Sam could hear the sound of his work-roughed fingers sliding over two-days growth of salt-and-pepper beard. "Dean tried that back in the bar and it about tore Sam up."

Maggie sighed and Sam heard her get up, moving around the small house out of his line of sight. 

"Well, unless you're willing to kill Claire, or trap it inside Sam," Maggie's voice was clipped, anxious, "I don't see as we have much of a choice."

"What are you doing?" Abe asked.

"Well, if we can't take him to a hospital, I gotta do something about that wound until your friend comes through."

As Sam watched, a shiver ran through Dean and a line appeared between his brows, bisecting his forehead and pulling his lips low in a frown. 

_What am I supposed to do, Dean?_

The being rolled inside of Sam, thrusting against his ribs, beating against his heart, reaching for his throat and suddenly, jerking back. Sam closed his eyes, stifling a groan.

_I've tried so hard to keep you safe… long as I'm around nothing bad's gonna happen to you… because I'm an awesome big brother… if it's the last thing I do, I'm gonna save you…_

Sam swallowed, opening his eyes and holding the sound of his brother's voice close to him as he watched Maggie bend low over Dean's bloody mid-section. Dean jerked, his shivering increasing as Maggie gently cleaned away the blood. Sam watched her saturate a cloth with liquid from a brown bottle and as she pressed it to the puncture wound, a groan slid past Dean's parted lips.

"We're running out of time, here, Abe," Maggie said tightly. "He needs help and…" she glanced quickly up at Sam, "he's not going to last much longer."

"Wait until Bobby gets here," Abe said suddenly. 

Maggie shifted her eyes from Sam to tilt her chin in Abe's direction. 

"Just… don't do anything until Bobby gets here," Abe pleaded.

Sam measured his breathing, meeting Maggie's eyes, then blinking them slowly back up to Dean's face, watching as his brother's chin trembled.

"He'd better hurry," Maggie whispered.

www

Abe ran his fingers over his lips, unconsciously twisting Ailen's bangle in thought. Sam lay tied to one bed, gray in the twilight of the room, lips thinned out to keep the pain of the ikiryoh from seeping into the open, skin rolling along his chest and belly from the being's efforts to take over.

Dean lay limp in the bed next to his brother, the fight raging without him and inside of him. Blood pooled on the flat plane of his belly, wiped quickly away by Maggie's ministrations. The skin around the wound was red and raw, puffing up at the edges and Abe could see thin lines of red snaking away from the hole to traverse Dean's stomach. The crusted-over skin he'd cauterized just yesterday was cracked and torn from Dean's exertions.

_I failed…I failed you…_ The overpowering sense that he'd had _one_ job, and he'd screwed it up threatened to swamp Abe with emotion. _Boy has more faith in me than he does himself…_Bobby's words teased the edges of Abe's awareness. Dean's trust was not given lightly. Abe knew that where he'd failed, Bobby would persevere. But he had one more duty.

"I'll be right back," Abe choked out. 

Nobody looked at him as he stumbled from the room and out onto the porch. He was suddenly overwhelmed with the magnitude of his responsibility. Dragging Dean's cell phone from his pocket, he flipped it open, staring at the screen full of numbers. His mind numb, Abe scrolled through the names, so many unfamiliar names. 

A pang shot through him at the name _Dad_. Dean still had his father's number in his phone. Abe pressed the back of his hand to his lips, silently mourning this boys' loss even as he cursed the events that had led him here. 

How _had_ he gotten here? How had life taken him to this point? This point where he had nothing left but what he knew to be true, nothing to do but struggle, no one who cared if he lived or died except a handful of people who lived life off the grid.

_We're not that different, Dean Winchester…_

The rain had tapered leaving in its wake the sensation of crispness in the air and the scent of newness mixed with the earthy smell of mud and leaves and life. Pulling in a breath, Abe shifted his eyes to the bar and its darkened windows. He knew what lay within: a broken man and a woman whose innocence had been burned away by betrayal and hatred. Two dangerous combinations.

He glanced over his shoulder at the opened doorway to the safe house. He could see the white of Lobo's fur in the dim light, but couldn't see either of the beds or Maggie. Twisting the bangle once more, Abe dialed the number to the clinic at the reservation. It had been almost a year since he'd spoken to Doc. He hoped the voice on the other end would still be that of a friend.

"Doc? It's Abe. Abe Nakomis. Very funny. Yeah, it has been awhile," Abe reached up and gripped the back of his neck to steady himself. "Listen, I need your help. I'm in Plummer. Yeah, well, I was planning to come home for a bit, but… I got sidetracked. You remember the Winchesters?"

Abe paused while Doc ranted for a minute about the hunters he'd treated and saved over half a year ago. When Doc paused for breath, Abe broke in.

"I'm with them, and… Dean needs your kind of help." Abe told him about the fall into the river, the puncture wound, cauterizing it in place of stitches and the condition the wound and Dean were in now. He listened as Doc rattled off names of antibiotics and instructions, his stomach tightening with panic as he realized he wouldn't be able to hold all of this information.

"How…where…can I get this stuff, Doc?" Abe said, trying to mask the tremble in his voice. "His fever is high and he's pushed himself to the limit trying to keep his brother safe. Yeah, yeah, I know. _I_ _know_, okay? I tried to stop him, but… hell, Doc, you remember these boys. They are each other's heartbeat. Nothing I said mattered until he literally couldn't stand anymore."

On the other end of the phone, Doc was silent, and Abe leaned against the post on the porch, tracing the broken neon Budweiser sign with his eyes. He heard Doc take a breath and then tell him to go to a man who lived on the outskirts of Plummer. He would have what Abe needed.

"You gonna get in trouble for this? No, of course I won't say anything! Thank you, Doc, seriously. These boys owe you their lives." Abe felt his throat close as Doc commented on the Winchesters being the thing to bring Abe back home, in a way. "Yeah, well," Abe glanced over his shoulder toward the opened door. "Sometimes what we care about can surprise us."

He hung up, then turned to the doorway, stepping back inside and up to the beds where Maggie was busy cutting Dean's T-shirt away from his body with Abe's knife.

"What are you—"

"I need to get to his shoulder and I didn't want to put more pressure on this wound if I didn't have to."

Abe stepped around to the other side of the bed. "I have to go pick up the supplies for Dean," he said, helping Maggie pull the clothes away from Dean's skin.

"How long will you be gone?" Maggie asked. 

"Not long," Abe said, sitting on the edge of the bed and easing Dean up, supporting him at an angle so Maggie could get the bandages off his shoulder. The heat that radiated off of his skin caused Abe to shiver in response. 

Abe glanced to the other bed. "You doing okay, Sam?"

"Yeah," Sam croaked. "Untie me."

"Don't know if that's a good idea—"

"Untie me," Sam insisted. "I'm not going to hurt myself."

Abe frowned. Sam sounded clearer, more coherent, slightly less desperate.

"What is that charm, Sam? The one I put around your neck."

"Bobby gave them to us," Sam said, and Abe found himself swallowing in response to the rough sound of his voice. "Keep us from getting possessed."

_Talisman_… Abe thought. "Dean has one?"

"Yeah," Sam replied. "Untie me."

"In a second," Abe promised, shifting so that Maggie could clean out the round, pink tear in the meat of Dean's shoulder, above his collar bone. This wound didn't look nearly as bad as the one on his belly, but Abe knew that was relative.

Dean stiffened against him, rolling his head slightly as Maggie applied antiseptic. Abe murmured automatic words of comfort in his native language, unaware that he was doing so until he felt Dean relax.

"Mmrrphh!" Sal's muffled call pulled Abe's attention. 

Lobo had once again stepped closer, his teeth less than an inch away from Sal's carotid artery. Abe smiled, but it was just something he did with his mouth. He took no pleasure in this situation, even if he did realize that Sal was paying for a sin he should have been punished for years ago.

"We'll leave them open for a moment," Maggie said. "Let the air get to them."

"You sure?"

Maggie nodded. "Until we can get some medicine into him, I don't want to capture that infection inside."

"Sam?" Abe called the younger boy's attention. "Where is Dean's charm? It's not this one around his neck…"

"Pocket," Sam rasped. "Check his pocket."

Awkwardly, Abe reached into Dean's pockets, finding the small, round charm, similar to Sam's. He turned it over and was unsurprised to see the wolf carved on one side. Glancing at Lobo, Abe nodded. He shifted out from behind Dean, working the leather strap that held his other amulet in place off of his neck and slid the charm on the strap so that it, too, rested against his chest.

"There," Abe sighed, knowing now why he'd crossed paths with these hunters. 

Maggie sat back, her worried eyes on Dean as his head rolled against the pillow, a groan of misery escaping his tight lips. Abe moved around her, between the beds, and picked up his knife from where Maggie had set it down. 

"Sam," Abe said, leaning over and meeting the boy's blue-green eyes. "That charm isn't going to slow it down forever."

"I know," Sam said. "Untie me."

Abe closed his eyes, licked his lips, and then grasped the rope, slicing quickly at one wrist then the other, releasing Sam from the bed. Sam rubbed his rope-burned skin, rolling to his side and curling in on himself as the ikiryoh continued to thrash inside of him.

"Now leave," Sam ordered.

"What?" Maggie gasped.

"Leave," Sam repeated. "I can't protect all of you."

"Sam, we—"

The sharp retort of the gunshot canceled out anything else Abe was planning on saying.

"What the hell?" He turned to the doorway.

"Oh, God, Yeats," Maggie breathed, pushing past Abe and heading out of the opened door. 

"Maggie, wait!" Abe cried, running after her.

www

He'd had the flu once when he was younger. It had kept him out of school for two weeks. Dean had brought his homework to him, and when he was well enough to sit up in bed, they had worked through the problems together so that Sam hadn't fallen behind. The sickness had weakened him to the point that his brother had been forced to help him rise from the bed, cross the room to the bathroom, even stand in the shower. 

He had been too young to be embarrassed, too tired to be shy, and too grateful to be disgruntled when Dean had stood, fully clothed, behind him, keeping him from collapsing to the small stall floor, letting the lukewarm water cool his fevered skin. All he remembered for much of those two weeks was the absolute absence of strength and the constant presence of Dean. He hadn't wanted his dad; he'd wanted Dean.

As Sam rolled to his side, Abe standing not two feet away, he was acutely reminded of that feeling of weakness, that need for his brother. Except this time, he wasn't a boy, and he needed to turn the tables. Dean's raspy, panting breath called to him with each exhale. And he needed everyone to leave.

He knew what he needed to do, and he didn't have the strength to explain how or why. He just needed them gone. The reason behind the gunshot could not have mattered any less to him in that moment. It had emptied the room of the extra people.

As if he were an arthritic ninety-year-old, Sam pushed himself to a sitting position, gasping as he felt his insides twist and heard the scream of denial grow in intensity.

"Lobo," Sam said, eyes heavy. "Go."

Lobo whined, stepping back from Sal. He sat and looked between Sam and his prisoner. 

"It's okay," Sam urged. "Go."

The dog whined again, tilting his head in confusion. Sam simply looked at him, concentrating on conserving his strength. After a moment, Lobo stood, huffing air out of his nostrils, then padded out of the door and to the porch. Sam slid from the bed to his knees, unable to stand, and crawled around the end of Dean's bed, slumping on the floor between his brother and Sal.

Sal's beady, dark eyes shifted nervously and he tried to push back away from Sam, closer to the corner of the room. Sam ignored him, biting his lip against a burst of pain. The ikiryoh couldn't get to him like before, he knew. It couldn't get to his mind because of the charm. Abe didn't realize this, but in a way, he had essentially trapped the being inside of Sam when he returned the charm. 

But Sam knew it was killing him. And when he died, the being would be released, and he couldn't let that happen. Panting, he dropped his head back against the bed, feeling Dean's leg there. Fumbling a clumsy hand over his head, Sam rolled against the bed frame to his side, reaching up to grasp Dean's arm.

The heat there made him jerk back in surprise. Dean was burning up. He felt the tremble of his brother's protesting muscles beneath his skin as he rested his hand on Dean's arm once more. Dragging his knees slowly under him, Sam drew himself up, looking down at Dean's face.

"Hey," he whispered. "I hope you can hear me." 

Dean rolled his head toward Sam's voice. Sam felt his heartbeat quicken.

"Can you open your eyes, Dean?" 

A flicker of lashes. Sam's focus narrowed.

"I need you to open your eyes, man. _Please_. I don't think I have much time, here."

Sam felt Dean's muscles tighten under his hand and he fought the urge to look down at the wound marring the surface of his brother's stomach. As if waging his own war against darkness, Dean's eyes rolled beneath his lids, his brows pulled close, the edges of his lips tipping down.

"That's it, big brother," Sam encouraged softly. "Look at me."

A flash of green greeted Sam and he felt himself relax slightly.

"Hey," Sam repeated.

Dean's mouth moved in a silent reply.

"Don't try to talk, it's okay," Sam said, tightening his grip. "Listen, I need to tell you something."

Dean blinked, his pupils wide, his eyes pinned to Sam. 

"I believe you, Dean," Sam whispered, feeling his chin tremble. "I believe you."

Dean frowned. "Wha…"

"I believe what you said. I know you don't blame me," Sam felt tears gather, ignoring them. "I know…" he jerked as the ikiryoh's desperate search for doubt and darkness intensified. "I _know_ you're going to do everything you can to save me."

Dean nodded, shivering despite his obvious efforts to hold himself still.

"But, now I gotta do something to help save you, okay?"

"Sam," Dean's weak voice pleaded. 

"It's gonna be okay," Sam said, wanting to drop his head forward. Wanting to rest. Wanting to give in. "I promise. It's gonna be okay."

"Don't…you leave…me, man," Dean growled, reaching up with trembling fingers to clutch at Sam's shirt. "You… fight, Sammy."

"I'm not going anywhere," Sam said falling to his rear as his knees refused to hold him. "I hope," he whispered, his eyes closing against the weight of the battle he was raging with the ikiryoh. 

"Don't… don't have to do… this."

"Yes, I do," Sam replied, focusing on Sal. "Otherwise… they'll be so worried about… this… thing, they won't… take care of… you."

"Sam—"

"It's okay, Dean. It's okay." He glanced over his shoulder. "Just hang on to that charm, okay?"

Dean blinked at him, trying to smile, his lips trembling with the effort. "You're… hanging our lives… on a possibility?"

Sam pulled his mouth up in weary grin. "Who's your brother, Dean?"

He felt the soft weight of Dean's hand on the top of his head, fingers fisting in his long hair as his answer.

Taking a breath, Sam looked back at Sal, then crawled the short distance between them to take up the position Lobo had recently vacated. He pulled the sock out of Sal's mouth, dropping it beside him as Sal tried to wet his mouth and lick his lips.

"You're fucking _crazy_," he growled.

"You're probably right," Sam nodded. "I might be crazy." He reached up and wrapped his fingers around the charm hanging from Abe's leather strap around his neck. "But you're about to join me."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Sam pressed his hand flat against the ground for balance. "That girl you and your friends raped…didn't die."

"So your brother said," Sal struggled against the ropes holding him tightly in place. The puncture marks on his arm continued to seep fresh blood. "So what?"

"So… she's wiped out all of your friends… and conjured an evil spirit along the way."

Sal rolled his eyes. "Whatever, dude."

"This spirit," Sam continued, gathering his will, "it feeds on guilt. On fear. On doubt. On darkness." Sam's voice increased in strength as he spoke, spitting the final word directly into Sal's face. "And I'm willing to bet you've got that in spades."

"Wh-what are you… gonna do?" Sal asked, showing true fear for the first time since Lobo vacated the room.

"Well," Sam rubbed the pad of his thumb over the eagle etching on his charm. "I think you're right, Sal," he said, his eyes hardening as the being within him writhed. "I am crazy… because I'm talking to a dead man."

"What!"

Sam pulled the charm over his head, rocking back with a sudden cry as the ikiryoh surged with power. The calm that the combination of the pilocarpine and Bobby's charm had offered him allowed Sam to realize what no one else had been able to see: _he_ had to be the one to recite the sutra to banish the ikiryoh from in side of him. 

And Sam had always had an excellent memory.

"_Excessive desire only brings me to suffering…" _His body shook, his voice shook, tears streamed from his eyes. Dean called his name, his voice both desperate and weak.

"_Birth and death, sorrow and weariness all are from greedy attachment to things of this world…" _

He fell to his side, rolling to his back as he screamed in frustrated pain. The ikiryoh pushed against his skin, clawing and fighting, knowing it was about to be defeated. Sam felt himself depart, as he were suddenly floating above himself, watching as he shook and writhed, his legs bouncing against the worn, wooden floor, watching his hands claw at his neck, his chest, desperate for release.

_"But controlling desire…" _he shouted, "_cuts the root of unhappiness, leaving the body and mind to relax."_

Like mist disappearing with the coming of the dawn, Sam felt the being inside of him escaping on an exhale of air. He laid still, his ears humming, his vision swimming, his body trembling. He knew it wasn't gone. But it was no longer inside of him. And in the vacuum of its absence, strength took a hesitant step forward.

"Dean," he said, his voice like sandpaper on glass. "Dean, don't move."

"What... what the hell just happened?" Sal whimpered, and Sam could hear him trying to push away from them, trying to scuttle toward the broken-out window.

Sam lay still, staring at the rough beams on the ceiling. As if it weighed a hundred pounds, he slowly drew his arm close to his chest, the charm clutched tightly in his fist.

"I believe you, Dean," he whispered.

"I know," Dean replied his voice barely audible.

And suddenly Sal gasped, a wet, strangling sound of sick realization. Sam continued to lie still, breathing freely for the first time in hours. The ikiryoh was not defeated. It was too powerful to be simply banished. But Sam had known that it would seek out the weakest link, the darkest space.

Sal's whimper confirmed Sam's suspicions. The ikiryoh had found a new host, and the clock was now ticking all over again.

www

"Yeats?" Maggie called, running up to the entrance of the bar.

"Wait!" Abe called, close on her heels. "Maggie, wait!"

No answering call reached their ears. The silence coming from inside the bar was more frightening than the sudden burst of sound of the bullet piercing the air. Abe caught up with her just as Maggie's fingers closed around the door handle. He grabbed her arm.

Wrenching herself free, Maggie turned to face Abe. "Stop it! I'm going in there."

"You don't know what's—"

"I don't care!" Maggie yelled, her eyes snapping. "That man has stood by my side for over a decade and I never bothered to find out _anything_ about him!"

Abe stepped back, his mouth opening and closing silently.

"Now, he's trapped himself in there with a _killer_."

Abe's own words echoed back to him. _Sometimes what we find we care about can surprise us._

"Okay," Abe nodded quickly. "Okay, but I go in first."

"What about Dean?" Maggie shoved Abe away, hard. "You can't be everywhere, Abe."

"I—" Abe looked back over toward the safe house, his stomach twisting. 

If he didn't get the medicine to Dean soon, they could lose him. If he let Maggie go inside with Yeats and Claire by herself, he could lose her. Abe fisted his hands at his side, growling low in helpless frustration. Suddenly, he realized his growl was echoed. 

Turning, he saw Lobo sitting on the porch, watching him. _Wolf…_ Spirit of his people. Strength and pride. Hunter and keeper. 

Abe locked eyes with the animal as Maggie turned the knob of the door to the _Hideout_. 

_Help me, brother…_

Lobo trotted down the steps of the safe house, crossing the expanse of empty space between the two buildings, and as Maggie stepped inside, Lobo followed. Closing his eyes for a moment, steadying his heartbeat, Abe turned and headed resolutely toward his truck. 

www

_Christ…so hot…_

Fire shivered through his system, causing his muscles to quake in response. Dean cursed the weakness plaguing his limbs, the weight of pain that trapped him against the bed. He should be _up_. Fighting. 

But, _God_, he was burning. A cold fire ate him and he couldn't breathe and he couldn't move and he couldn't find solace. The sick sensation of flames rocketed through his body, pushing behind his eyes, searing his throat. His belly rolled with volcanic heat and he felt his blood seep between the cracks in the scabbed, burned skin.

Sam was screaming, chanting, words tumbling from his brother's lips in a flurry of determined sound. Dean wanted to reach out, find him, grab him, pull Sam behind him, away from whatever was making him sound like that. But he couldn't breathe… and his eyes were so heavy... 

"Dean," Sam's voice tucked into him. "Dean, don't move."

Ghosted images like double-exposed film flashed across his closed lids. He saw Sam in a cascade of shots, reaching out to him, pushing him away. He saw his fist crack against Sam's jaw, saw his brother stand fast. He saw angry eyes, pleading eyes, sad eyes, laughing eyes—all Sam. 

He forced his eyes open, reaching out to where he'd last heard his brother. A quake slid through him and left footprints of cold in its wake. Swallowing, he lifted his eyebrows, willing the motion to bring with them his heavy lids. He _needed_ to see Sam. Needed grab on and hold tight and keep Sam from falling, save him… _save him_…

"What…what the hell just happened?"

Dean slid his tongue over his parched lips, trying ineffectually to wet them, feeling the cool air against the damp skin. He didn't recognize the voice off to his left, but he knew the terror it held. Knew it like a silent friend. Sam's words drifted back to him.

_Just hang on to that charm, okay?_

"I believe you, Dean." Sam's voice crawled over him, climbing behind the wall, pushing away the pain, settling around his heart.

"I know," Dean managed, his burning eyes falling closed, his body rocking with the motion of a fevered chill.

_Don't let go… I'll fall if you let go…_

His reaching fingers brushed against air, thick and palpable with circumstance. His belly burned, his body shook, and he felt himself slowly sinking into the fire that surrounded him. 

_I'll fall if you let go…_

www

"Getitoutgetitoutgetitout…" Sal's warbling voice brought Sam's focus back. 

He rolled to his side, propping himself up on his elbow, and blinked bleary eyes at Sal. The hustler was pressed as far back into the wall as he could go, his bound hands clumsily batting at his face, his neck, tugging at the collar of his shirt. For a moment, Sam felt pity for the man. He knew how it felt to have the being crawling inside of him, how it felt to see his past transgressions and present fears dance before his eyes like a chorus line.

Sitting up farther, Sam slipped the leather strap and charm back over his head, thinking of the confused glimpses of Claire he'd caught in his panicked haze, the snippets of her story he'd been able to gather while fighting off his demons. Sal was experiencing first hand the results of the pain he had caused. 

The thought hardened Sam against the knee-jerk reaction of pity. He _wanted_ Sal to suffer.

Turning on his rear he faced the bed, his stomach clenching at the sight of his brother's pale face, so hot that it wasn't even glistening with sweat. Drawing up on his knees, Sam pushed himself up, his muscles protesting and sore as if he'd been sparring for hours. The ikiryoh had truly beaten him from the inside. 

"Dean?" Sam whispered, sinking down on the bed next to his brother's hip. 

Dean's bare chest bore the red, raw wounds inflicted by Sam and sustained while saving Sal. Sam winced, looking over at Sal's frightened, crazed eyes.

"Screw suffering, you son of a bitch," Sam growled. "You're gonna _pay_ for what you did to my brother."

Sal whimpered, muttering something unintelligible, scuttling along the wall, unable to get far, hampered as he was by his bindings.

Sam turned back to Dean. "Okay," he breathed, rubbing his rough chin with the flat of his fingers. "Think, Sam."

Dean was shaking, his jaw stuttering, air skittering across his teeth and parted lips in a staccato utterance of sound. His shoulders and hands trembled and Sam saw the motion working the seeping blood from his belly down his side. Sam couldn't remember what had happened to Maggie or Abe. He knew they'd left, but his brain was fogging up the details of the past few hours into the semblance of a remembered dream.

"Doesn't matter," Sam muttered. "We're usually alone, right man? I can do this."

He found the cloth Maggie had been using to clean Dean's wounds, located a clean space and wiped the blood from Dean's side, patting the wound carefully. Dean groaned.

"I know, I'm sorry, man," Sam whispered, keeping his focus evenly divided between Dean's face and the wound. "Okay. God, you're burning up… okay, Jesus, it's so hard to _think_… I need to… I gotta cool you off. Then… uh… we'll get some meds… somewhere. I might have to leave you—"

Dean jerked, as if in response to Sam's words, his hands fisting weakly in the blankets beneath him.

"Okay, bad idea," Sam assured his unconscious brother. "Don't worry. I'll figure it out. Get you stitched up. You'll see. Good as new." 

Sam stood, amazed at the surge of energy he suddenly felt after the hours of possession. His legs felt hollow, his arms tingled with a rush of blood, but he could feel his heartbeat steady in his chest, supporting him with purpose. When Bobby and Dean had sent Meg back to Hell, Sam had been left feeling completely exhausted, worn out, befuddled. He couldn't clearly remember any one event; they'd all slammed back to him in a dizzying rhythm of a nightmare.

But this time, though weary, he could at least move, function. He could take care of Dean. Rolling Dean carefully to the side, he pulled the cut shirt from beneath him, then moved down and removed his brother's boots and socks, hoping to make him more comfortable.

"Mine…" Sal whimpered. Sam whipped around, staring. Waiting.

"She's mine… I found her, mine. They can have her soon, but she's mine, you got it? Mine."

"Holy shit," Sam breathed, mouth gaping with disbelief. 

"Soon, back off Liam, you can have her soon, greedy bastard, greedy bastard, why couldn't you wait, I said soon…"

Sal twitched, his bound hands reaching up to flail at his face. Sam saw blood running from his raw wrists to mesh with the wounds on his arm from Lobo's teeth.

"You've taken your turn, you don't get more, taken your turn… cut her and be done…get it done get it done get it done…taking too long and someone's coming, someone sees…"

_Mine… Soon… Taken…_

"Oh, my God," Sam shook his head slowly. "She heard you. She _heard_ you…" _And the ikiryoh had absorbed that_. Sam felt sick. He slid a hand unconsciously over his stomach, pressing the ache he felt back. The hate that Claire had built for herself, her attackers, her father permeated the room for a moment and Sam flinched, curling over.

"_Fuck_," he groaned, closing his eyes. 

The pain, fear, anger that had created the ikiryoh was as real as a fourth person in the room. Sam shot a look over his shoulder, half expecting Claire to be standing in the doorway. When nothing greeted him but the coming of night, Sam swallowed the nausea, and turned back to his brother.

"Okay, Dean," Sam said, flicking on the light switch above Dean's head. "I'm gonna take care of you." 

_Cool him off… gotta cool him off… then worry about the wound… what would Dean do… _

He stood up, moving past Sal and into the bathroom. He turned on the water, checking the temperature, making sure it wasn't ice cold, but cool, then grabbed two towels from the bar behind the door, laying them on the edge of the sink within easy reach. He went back to the room, digging around in their bags until he found what was left of their gauze and suture supplies. 

The brown bottle Maggie had been using was all they had left of antiseptic. He found a bottle of Percocet in Dean's bag with the name Jo Harvelle on the label. Holding the bottle, he looked over at Dean. He suddenly realized he hadn't bothered to ask who had cared for Dean's shoulder. He's assumed it had been Bobby, but…

_My Daddy shot your Daddy in the he-ead…_

"God," Sam bent low, bowed by a punch of guilt so strong he could have sworn the ikiryoh was back. He closed his eyes, pulling in a breath. He didn't need a Japanese hate spirit to remind him how close the dividing line between good and evil really was to him. 

He looked back in the bag for any left over antibiotics, aspirin, anything else. It was the Percocet or nothing. 

"Guess we owe Jo more than I realized," Sam said to his brother's closed eyes as he approached the bed. "When this is all over, Dean, I think we have some stories to tell each other."

Sam set the supplies he'd gathered on the floor next to Dean's bed, then bent low, sliding an arm beneath Dean's shoulder, and bracing his other hand on Dean's hip. Carefully, he eased his brother to a slumped, sitting position. Dean's head rolled forward, his chin resting on his chest, a whimper sliding between his lips.

"I know this hurts, man," Sam whispered. "I gotta cool you off, okay?"

He wasn't going to be able to pick Dean up, he knew, so he ducked, slinging Dean's arm across his shoulders and snaking his opposite arm around Dean's back, gripping his brother's belt loops. On a silent three count, he pulled Dean up, moving him forward as quickly as he could, Dean lolling limply in his arms.

The ironic fact that only yesterday he was trying to warm Dean up wasn't lost on Sam. Grunting with effort, he manhandled them both into the small bathroom, carefully propping Dean up against the wall while he opened the shower stall door. He paused for a moment, considering the fact that Dean was still in his jeans. 

"Okay, yeah, that's gonna be a bitch to move you around in," Sam muttered. 

Keeping Dean pressed against the tile wall, Sam rested his shoulder against his brother's hot chest, fumbling with the button fly of Dean's jeans, then pulled him once more close to him, Dean's chin on his shoulder as he used a combination of his thumb and boot to work the denim down to the floor.

Dean mumbled something, his words meshed together, his tone anxious. Sam finished working the denim loose until Dean rested limply against him, propped up by Sam's body against the wall, clad in his boxers, his skin so hot to the touch that Sam was beginning to sweat.

"You are so going to kick my ass when I tell you about this," Sam muttered, returning Dean's arm to his shoulder to maneuver them into the shower. "Because I _will_ tell you about this, Dean. You'll see. This is just… just one more thing, right?"

Sam stepped into the shower stall, pulling Dean in carefully. Dean faced the cool water. Holding his brother up against him, his own clothes getting soaked, Sam remembered how Dean had gripped him when they were young: back to front, arms under arms, wrists clasped across chest. Dean sputtered when the water hit him, his trembling increasing.

"Ocean," Dean muttered, his head rolling limply as he tried to bring his head up.

"Shower," Sam corrected, tightening his grip and moving closer to the cool water, letting it soak into Dean's hair, run down his brother's bruised face, across his bowed neck. It gathered in the small hollow of Dean's collarbone where Sam's bullet had torn into him. It skittered down Dean's chest, sluicing the coagulating blood around the wound on his belly, turning pink, and drowned itself in the drain beneath them.

"Feels like the ocean," Dean said.

Sam couldn't tell if Dean was lucid or if he was hearing a fevered dream. He went with it.

"Yeah? When have you been in the ocean?"

"When Sam was at school," Dean replied, pulling his head up, eyes closed, then let his chin brush against his chest once more. 

Sam felt his heart clench. "You… you went to California?"

"Lotsa times," Dean sighed. "With Dad. Checkin' on Sam."

Sam felt his throat tighten. How foolish he'd been… how much time had he lost. Regret sliced into his heart like the edge of a fresh scalpel. Sharp and fast but with nothing to dull the pain.

"You like the ocean, Dean?"

"Mmhmm," Dean replied. 

Sam felt Dean's trembling increase, and shifted him so that the water reached more of his fevered body.

"Rolls," Dean said, his head bobbing on his neck. Sam reached up and laid Dean's head back against his shoulder, feeling his brother sag in his arms. 

"What rolls?"

"The water," Dean said, his lashes melding together, beads of water glistening on his face.

Sam's legs began to tremble and he pressed his back against the shower stall, sliding down carefully so that he sat with Dean in his lap once more, this time purposefully soaking him in cool water, hoping that it would draw out the fever, keep his body in the fight, bring Dean back to him.

"Water rolls," Dean was whispering. "In slow motion… like you're watching time stop… and you think… you think you can hold onto it… but when you reach for it… it slips away… always slips away…"

"Dean?"

"Go get Sam, will ya?"

"I'm here, Dean."

"Wanna see him… gotta tell him somethin'…"

"Hey, I'm here," Sam laid his hand flat against Dean's forehead, tipping his own head forward into the water. "Tell me, you can tell me."

"Tell him… Dad didn't… didn't die thinking… that Sam hated him…"

Sam felt a sob catch against the net of resistance in his throat. Dean's voice was slurred, dreamy, fading.

"I'll tell him."

"Watch out for Sammy… he said… he said that, you know. Watch out for Sammy…"

"I know…"

"Like watching the ocean… always… always slipping away…" The last word tipped on the edge of reality and Sam heard it tumble from Dean's lips into the abyss of dark that he was desperate to keep his brother from.

"Dean?"

The sound of the water hitting the sides of the shower wall mocked him. 

"Dean?"

Dean was completely limp in his arms. Sam shook him and Dean's mouth parted slightly, his jaw falling slack. Tipping his ear to the side Sam tried to listen for breath. He could feel it, faint, against his wet face. 

_God, he's burning…_

"Shit, man, don't _do _this!" Sam shook him again. "Please don't do this… the shower always worked for me… it always cooled me down… you can't have different rules, okay? You're not allowed!"

"Sam?"

Sam jerked his head up, the sound of Bobby's sudden, unexpected voice the most welcome sound in the world.

"Oh, thank God," Sam breathed, hearing the relief escape past his resistance and not caring.

"What the hell is goin' on here? Why are you guys sitting in the shower? Where is Maggie? And who is the dude going ape-shit out in the other room?"

"Help me, Bobby," Sam practically sobbed. "I can't get him cooled off."

"Holy Christ," Bobby muttered, stepping closer to peer into the shower stall at Dean's wet, bloody form. He grabbed a towel. "Let's get him out of there."

"I tried to… I mean, it used to work with me…"

"You did a good job, Sam," Bobby assured him, shutting off the water. He tipped his trucker hat back off his forehead and reached for Dean, wrapping the towel around the younger man's limp body. The part of the towel touching Dean's wound immediately started to turn pink with seeping blood.

"Push him toward me, there, that's it, okay easy, easy," Bobby narrated, pulling Dean up and allowing Sam to step free. "You're soaked."

Sam just looked at him.

"Let's get your brother in bed and you can get changed."

Sam helped move Dean from the other side, joining Bobby in half dragging, half carrying him to the single bed and laying him down on the towels. 

"Go get changed," Bobby said, his voice the epitome of no-nonsense. 

Sam paused a moment to stare in wonder as Bobby covered Dean's legs with a towel and removed his wet shorts without hesitation or embarrassment. Sam grabbed a dry pair of jeans and a T-shirt, hurried past Sal, ignoring the mutterings of _not mine but I wanted it so I took it and they blamed him but I had it and that's okay, that's okay_.

When he returned, Dean was covered to his waist in the white sheet, shivering so badly that Sam could see the bed shaking. Bobby was frowning, his beard camouflaging the worried lines of his mouth, but his dark blue eyes were sober and still. He was searching through the supplies Sam had set next to the bed. 

"Wanna tell me who you got tied up over there?" Bobby grumbled without looking at him.

"Sal," Sam replied, fastening his jeans and shaking out his wet hair. "He's one of the guys that hurt Claire. He beat up Dean—left in him the river after Dean got hurt saving him." The hard edge in Sam's voice cut through the air as the words spit from his mouth.

Bobby simply nodded, straightening up. "The bad guy," he concluded.

"You got that right. What can I do?" Sam asked, resting the back of his hand against Dean's arm, checking. His skin was frighteningly hot to the touch.

"Go to the kitchen," Bobby said, grabbing the gauze pad and tearing open the sterile wrapping. "Find some plastic bags and fill them with ice."

Sam was back in moments with four bags. They wrapped them in the towels from the bathroom and put one under each of Dean's arms, one between his legs, and the other as close to the belly wound as possible. Dean's shivering immediately increased.

"I can't believe he's shaking so much but still so hot," Sam said, chewing on his bottom lip and shoving his wet hair back.

"He needs antibiotics," Bobby growled, laying the gauze pad gently on the opened belly wound. "_Medicine_. Not Bactine and Band-Aids."

Sam frowned, remembering. "Abe's… going to get something."

"You sure?" Bobby looked at him. 

"Yeah," Sam nodded sitting on the opposite bed from Dean, his forearms resting on his knees. "Yeah, I mean… it's all kinda hazy, but I know Abe went to help Dean."

"You kill the witch?" Bobby asked, pulling his hat off, scratching his head and then resting the hat back in its place.

"Uh, no," Sam looked down. 

"Then how did…"

"I…pushed it into Sal," Sam said softly.

"_You_ did?"

"I was the only one who could."

"Sam…" Bobby shook his head. "That takes…power."

Sam brought his head up. "So?"

Bobby shook his head quickly. "Nothing… I'm just… well, good. That's good, Sam."

"How did you find us, Bobby?" Sam asked, weariness tapping at the edges of his perception.

Bobby drew his head back. "Are you kidding? How did you think I knew to send you here?"

"Oh, right," Sam rubbed his face, watching as Bobby winced looking at the wound on Dean's shoulder. 

"He never let me check this out," Bobby grumbled. "Said it was fine. Of course."

"I think Jo fixed it for him," Sam offered.

"Looks like it should be okay if he could catch a break," Bobby gently took Dean's chin between his fingers, turning his head so that he could examine the fresh bruises. "How you guys managed to get in trouble at a safe house is beyond me."

Sam dropped his head, rubbing at the back of his neck, trying to massage the weariness. It was so hard to concentrate. So hard to _think_. He felt like there was something he needed to remember, something he needed to do, but scenes were dancing behind his closed eyes and memories were drifting up to him as Bobby spoke. He found himself tapping his foot, concentrating on the motion, the rhythm, the repetition. 

"Sam?"

"What?"

"You hear what I said?"

Sam brought his head up, keeping up the beat, focusing on the count. "No."

"Asked if you found the spell," Bobby stood on the other side of Dean's bed, pulling a thin, white blanket from the foot of the bed up to cover Dean mid-chest. 

"What spell?" Sam asked, puzzled. _Six… seven… eight…_

"The one to trap the spirit," Bobby jutted his chin out. "Didn't Abe tell you?"

"Uh…" Sam tried to think, rubbing at his forehead. "No, I, uh, I think he forgot."

"Well, shit," Bobby cursed, rubbing his mouth and looking over at Sal. 

Sam dropped his eyes to Dean's shaking form. _Four, five, si—_

"Jesus Christ," Sam breathed. Dean's lips were moving silently, but as Sam counted, he saw his brother doing the same thing. A small shiver shook Sam as he felt goose bumps climb his arms. Dean had always counted when he hurt, when he needed to think, when he couldn't concentrate. Sam had never bothered to ask why; it was just something Dean did.

But now he realized that there were too many voices in Dean's head. Too many possible scenarios to consider. Too much responsibility to bear. Counting the beats to a song, or the rhythm of the wiper blades on a wet windshield, or the dotted lines on the highway was a way for Dean to bring the world into focus… keep it from slipping away.

Dean shifted, stirring the ice packs. Sam moved over to his bed, trying to adjust them back in place.

"No," Dean shook his head against the pillow, trying to push the ice away.

"You need to keep them on you, Dean," Sam said. "You've got a fev—"

"Been in Sam since he disappeared…"

Sam went cold. His words of protest literally died on his tongue. 

"What's he saying?" Bobby said, leaning closer.

Dean thrashed slightly, pushing the ice from the bed. "Bitch..." Dean spat, "took him away from me…"

"Dean—"

Dean's eyes flew open, the pupils so large there was barely a hint of green. "Go 'way… get 'way from me…" He pushed himself up to the head of the bed, his back against the wall, the blanket and sheet falling to his waist, the gauze pad threatening to fall loose.

"Dean, it's me. It's Sam."

"No," Dean shook his head. "No… he wouldn't… he didn't…"

Sam reached out. Dean pushed his hands away. 

"Saw him shoot…"

The words hit Sam like a slap and he bent forward.

"…wasn't him… wasn't Sam."

"I know, Dean," Sam whispered. "_You_ knew. Hey, hey, easy, big brother, okay? Take it easy or you're gonna start bleeding again. It's me, okay? It's Sammy."

Dean pressed his back against the wall, trembling, his hand sliding toward his belly wound. "Sam?"

"Yeah, it's me, you with me?"

"Where's… where's Dad?"

"Dean, come on, man, come on back to me, okay?" Sam reached for him again and Dean knocked his hand away.

"He was here… I heard him."

"You heard Bobby," Sam tilted his head toward the older man.

"Bobby?"

"Hey, Dean," Bobby stepped forward. "You got yourself in a fix."

"Bobby," Dean repeated, still staring at the bearded hunter.

"Yeah," Bobby nodded, staying where he was, not crowding him. 

"Not Dad," Dean looked over at Sam.

Sam shook his head. "No, Dean. Not Dad."

Dean slumped on the bed, his face crumpling slightly as he pressed a hand tighter against his wound. "I coulda… coulda sworn I heard… heard him… singing."

Sam blinked. "Singing?"

"He… he used to sing," Dean melted further into the bed. "Sing to Sam when he was sick… when he couldn't… couldn't sleep."

"Dad… sang to me?"

"Thought I was asleep," Dean's head dropped sideways and Bobby reached out to straighten him in the bed. "Wasn't, though…" Dean closed his eyes again on a sigh.

Sam looked up at Bobby. "Dad…_sang_ to me."

"So I gathered," Bobby said gruffly, repositioning the ice packs around Dean.

Dean groaned, his face pulled into a tight fist of pain. Sam reached for him a third time, grasping Dean's hot hand in his, relieved when Dean didn't push him away. 

"Sam," Dean whispered, eyes closed, lips cracked.

Bobby wet a towel and handed it to Sam, who pressed it against Dean's mouth.

"I'm here," Sam assured him. 

"Fuckin' hurts, man," Dean growled, completely lucid, eyes blinking open, though heavy. "Wanta kill that sonuvabitch."

"You mean Sal?"

"Yeah… bastard…"

"Don't worry, brother," Sam gripped Dean's hand, nodding when Dean tightened his fingers around Sam. "I think we got that covered."

Teeth clenched, Dean pressed his head back into the pillow, neck arching up as his body shook. 

"Think you could swallow a pill?" Sam asked.

"Hell yeah," Dean whispered.

Sam indicated the Percocet with his eyes. Bobby nodded, tapped a pill into his hand and hurried to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. He returned and coaxed Dean's head up with his strong hand, sliding the pill between his lips and helping him swallow the water.

"When'd you get here?" Dean asked as Bobby eased his head back down on the pillow.

"Not soon enough," Bobby commented. "You two were supposed to be lying low."

Dean closed his eyes, a cough shaking him. "Can't get much lower than this."

Rambling words of insanity drifted over the trio from Sal, and were summarily ignored. 

Dean grit his teeth against another wave of pain, gripping Sam's fingers so tightly, Sam saw the tips go white. "What... what's the plan…" Dean gasped.

"Abe's gonna bring you back some help," Sam assured him. "He'll be here soon, okay?"

Dean's eyes blinked open, wide, as if suddenly realizing Sam was next to him. "You…you're okay?"

Sam's smile trembled at the edges. "Yeah."

"You sure? No… darkside?"

Sam shook his head. "Not this time."

Dean relaxed slightly. "'S good… good." His eyes drifted shut, then he bounced them open with a gasp. "Sam!"

"I'm here."

"_Fuck_…" Dean pressed his lips tight, his body curling slightly to the side as he pressed his hand to his belly. "I can't… man… it's…"

"Hey, hey," Sam scrambled closer to the bed so that Dean could see his face. "Take it easy. All you gotta do is hang in there, okay? Just hang in there and Abe is gonna be here, soon."

"Abe," Dean panted. "Right."

"He won't be much longer, okay?"

"'Kay…" Dean swallowed. "Where's Lobo?"

"Who?" Bobby spoke up.

"This… wolf-dog that kinda adopted Dean," Sam explained. Focusing again on his brother, Sam said, "I made him leave."

"Why?"

"Well…" Sam paused, embarrassed. "I didn't know if it would… y'know, go into him."

Dean blinked. "The spirit?"

"Yeah."

"You think a dog has… a dark side?" Dean forced out.

_I think that one could…_ "Better safe than sorry, right?"

Dean didn't reply. Sam watched as his eyes pressed tightly closed, a muscle dancing along his jaw line, his lips white around the edges. Sam knew he was close to losing him back to the darkness of the fever.

"Dean," Sam said, shaking his brother'shand. "Hey… hey, Dean."

"Hmm?"

"What did Dad sing?"

"Dad?" Dean blinked his eyes open, panting. Sam watched him press the flat his hand against his stomach once more.

"Yeah, you said he sang to me when I couldn't sleep… what did he sing?"

Dean's eyes widened slightly; Sam recognized it as a forced effort at consciousness. "_Turn the Page_," he said softly.

"Yeah?"

Dean nodded. "Loved Seger. Him and mom both."

A smile softened the worried lines on Sam's face, his eyes watering at the thought of Dean's memory of their mom. "I didn't know that."

Dean began to relax by increments, and Sam knew the pain medication was finally taking hold. His hair splaying in a short brush against the pillow, Dean nodded drunkenly. 

"Not a monster," Dean whispered, his eyes sliding closed.

"What?" Sam asked, feeling Dean's hand go limp in his. "What was that?"

"Think he means your daddy," Bobby said softly from behind him. Sam looked over his shoulder. Bobby had his back to the opened door, one booted foot resting on the seat of a kitchen chair, and Sam's Glock in his hand, checking the ammunition. He wasn't looking at Sam. "Your dad wasn't a monster, Sam."

"I _know_ that," Sam snapped. "I never thought that."

"He had a screwy way of showing you both—'specially your brother, there—but he loved you boys," Bobby continued. 

Sam looked back down at his brother's hand resting in his as Dean slept.It was sturdy: veins rippled over muscles, thin, white scars edged knuckles, capable fingers tapered into blunted ends. He turned his own hand over, noticing the difference. The grace in his tapered fingers, the absence of scars.

Bobby began to hum, low, mellow, his tone rumbling through the tight air of the room and easing the tension from Sam's shoulders.

Sam had John's hands. He'd seen that before. He watched his brother and his father all of his life. He'd mirrored them, rebelled against them, cried for them. He had watched his father clean his guns hundreds of times, watched as his quick, sure fingers moved over the chambers and bullets, the motion like that of a person playing an instrument. Sam had recognized his own hands watching John.

"But your thoughts will soon be wandering the way they always do, when you're ridin' sixteen hours and there's nothin' much to do. And you don't feel much like ridin', you just wish the trip was through."

Sam found himself humming softly as Bobby continued to sing, lifting Dean's limp hand and resting it on his brother's hip. He'd watched Dean's hands work on the Impala's engine, sure and steady, almost caressing the different components as though he were coaxing a lover to open up for him. He had seen Dean's hand strike out in anger and reach out to save. He had seen him surrender and struggle and he knew… he _knew_ his hands were nothing like his brother's.

"And you feel the eyes upon you as you're shakin' off the cold. You pretend it doesn't bother you, but you just want to explode."

"Bobby?" 

The room was so still, save for Bobby's soft baritone, that Sam heard Bobby jerk at the sound of Maggie's voice. He looked over his shoulder, surprised to see the color drain from his friend's face. Resting a hand on Dean's arm, Sam twisted to find Maggie in the doorway, dirty, disheveled, bloody. Here green eyes were shining with unshed tears and she held herself so still that Sam thought a breath would shatter her.

"Mags," Bobby whispered, his voice strangled. He slid his foot from the chair, turning around slowly. "Been a long time."

Maggie nodded, stepping further into the room. "Bobby," she repeated, as if saying his name made him real.

Bobby set the Glock on the table, within reach, facing Sal. Sam took note of its position, looking over at the possessed hustler for the first time since they'd pulled Dean out of the shower. Sal's wrists and ropes were red with blood, loosening with his continued attempts to escape. His face bore the evidence of desperate fingernail scratches and his clothes were torn. 

He was laughing softly, his eyes closed. Sam swallowed, knowing that only one thing had kept him from that madness: Dean.

"Where have you been?" Maggie said, stepping further into the room. 

"I've, uh…" Bobby started. 

Maggie faced him, and Sam saw the tears had fallen in twin trails of misery down her cheeks. 

"You _son of a bitch_!" she breathed. 

Sam never saw her move but the crack of her hand across Bobby's face was louder than any gunshot. Bobby's head snapped sideways and he actually staggered under the force of the blow. 

"_Where. Have. You. Been_?" Maggie snarled.

She tried to slap him again and Bobby caught her wrist. 

"Mags," Bobby whispered. "What happened?"

Sam stood. He wanted to help, but felt almost voyeuristic as he faced Bobby and Maggie. They were the same height, Maggie's sturdy figure looked almost as formidable in her incensed state as Bobby's deliberate scowl. She didn't drop her hand and Bobby gripped her just above the Celtic tattoo that decorated the inside of her right arm.

"You're too late," Maggie growled, emotion choking her. "You're too damn late."

"Maggie?" Sam said softly.

Maggie blinked, looking over at Sam, then past him, down at Dean sleeping on the bed. She seemed to come back to herself and her knees trembled. 

"Oh, God, Bobby," she sobbed. "He's dead."

"What?" Sam said. 

"Who?" Bobby replied at the same time.

"Yeats."

"Yeats is dead?" Sam breathed.

"Yeats?" Bobby exclaimed. "He's back?"

Maggie sniffed, and Sam saw her waver. Still holding her arm, Bobby pulled her forward, setting her carefully on the kitchen chair. 

"He never left," Maggie whispered. "After you… he… he never left me, Bobby. And… and I couldn't save him."

Sam took another step closer. "What happened, Maggie?"

Maggie swiped at her face with the back of her hand. "I heard that gunshot," she said, here eyes on the middle distance. "And I knew. I just knew. But I had to see…"

"Did Claire—" Sam started.

"He did it himself."

"What?" Bobby exclaimed. "No way. Not the man I knew."

Maggie met his eyes. "A lot can change in ten years, Bobby."

Bobby looked down.

"Was Claire there?" Sam pressed.

Maggie nodded. "She… she looked… satisfied. But… also…" Maggie shook her head. "He had my gun in his hand—the one I keep under the bar—and his face… half his face was gone. I didn't think. I just charged in and Lobo—"

"Lobo was with you?" Sam interrupted.

"He went right for her… I didn't think. I just went to Yeats like I could… I don't know… put him back together? I don't know," she sobbed. "But Lobo went for Claire. I heard her say something and he yelped and… I think I kinda blacked out for a bit because the next thing I knew… I was alone with Yeats."

"Are you sure, Mags?"

"Sure about what?" she asked Bobby.

"That he did it?"

"The gun was in his hand," Maggie swallowed. 

"She's a witch," Bobby reminded her. "Maybe she—"

"Doesn't matter," Maggie interrupted. "He's dead. And I didn't do a damn thing to stop it."

"What could you have done?" Sam asked.

Maggie lifted a shoulder. "Gotten to the truth a long time ago. Helped him deal with what happened to his daughter." She looked at Sam. "Loved him."

Bobby pushed to his feet, clenching and unclenching his fists. "We need to find that witch."

"Why?" Sam said. "It's in Sal, right? We can just—"

"We can't trap it without her," he shook his head. "I told Abe, but—"

"Don't blame him," Sam broke in. "Blame me. I should have found something like that when I was researching."

"I'm not blaming anybody, boy," Bobby snapped. "We need that spell and we need the witch. The more darkness inside a person, the faster the ikiryoh will consume them. If it breaks free, we're toast. Hate to say it, but someone's gonna die."

Sam rubbed his face, drawing his fingers together at his lips. It was too much. Too much. Dean groaned in his sleep and Sam looked over his shoulder. 

_Hang in there Dean… Abe will be here soon…_

Sam turned back to his brother, dropping down beside the bed, curling his fingers around the corded muscles on Dean's forearm. The heat there scared Sam. How long could someone burn from fever before…

_No. No, Dean's not going anywhere. He promised, and he always keeps his promises. Always._

The rumble of an engine and slam of metal against metal as the truck door shut left Sam feeling weak with relief. Abe's booted footsteps echoed through the room and he was in the house before Sam could turn around.

"I hurried," Abe said by way of greeting. "Is he still with us?"

Bobby stepped forward. "Hell, yeah, he's with us." He grabbed the supplies from Abe, set them on the table, then thrust out a hand. "Bobby Singer."

Abe shook it. "Abe Nakomis."

"Yeats is dead," Maggie informed him woodenly. 

"What?" Abe stumbled back a step, shock plain on his face, his eyes fluttering with uncomprehension.

"Listen," Sam broke in. "Dean needs help now."

"Yeats is dead?" Abe repeated, his voice strangled.

Maggie nodded. "Claire was there, but I don't know… and Lobo's hurt."

"No," Abe breathed. "No, I let him—"

"HEY!" Sam bellowed. Dean jerked at the sound but didn't wake. "Not that I don't care, but we have more pressing issues at hand here."

Abe rubbed a shaking hand over his face. "Right… uh… Doc said he needed that bag with the blue letters via IV and then we have to give him two injections of this," he pointed to two large syringes, "two hours apart. After that… the fever should be gone and he can take these pills."

"And if the fever's _not_ gone?" Sam asked.

Abe looked at him, silent.

"Right," Sam pulled at his lower lip. "Okay, so who knows how to start an IV?"

"I can," Bobby said, heading into the bathroom to wash his hands. 

Sal's crazy laugh echoed softly in the corner of the room. Sam watched Abe eye him. 

"We've been mostly ignoring him," Sam informed him.

"Ignoring evil only feeds its reality," Abe whispered. "The devil hides in plain sight, convincing us with apathy that his threat is unreal."

"What are you saying?" Sam challenged testily, tying the IV bag of saline solution to the top of the bunk bed so that the plastic tubing fell down to Dean's arm. 

Abe swallowed shaking his head helplessly.

"Way I see it," Sam continued, "I got two choices. I can take care of my brother, or I can get rid of Sal."

"What if by doing one you do the other?"

"Jesus, you talk like friggin' Yoda," Sam growled, shoving a hand through his hair.

"And you're starting to sound like your brother," Bobby grumbled. "Ease off, Sam."

Sam sighed, glancing at Abe. "Sorry."

Abe nodded. "Not everyone who discovers this world is fit to live in it."

Sam blinked. "I'll figure that one out in a second."

Abe handed Bobby the blue rubber band to wrap around Dean's arm as a tourniquet. "I mean that I think I'm meant to be a different kind of hunter. It's not simply a matter of eliminating evil. It's a matter of saving lives."

"Sometimes, you can't do both," Maggie whispered from the chair she still sat in.

"Sam, pay attention," Bobby ordered. "I need your help here."

"I'm with you." Sam felt his focus hone in to the vulnerable space on Dean's arm on the inside of his elbow.

"I'm going to find his vein. When I do, I want you to release the tourniquet. Then we'll pull the blue stopper off and feed in the saline line."

"Done this before?" Sam asked.

"A time or two," Bobby muttered, holding his mouth carefully as he ran his thumb over the thinner skin of Dean's arm, carefully inserting the needle into the vein, feeding the catheter into Dean's arm, then nodding at Sam to release the tourniquet. 

He pulled the needle free, then attached the tubing of the saline IV to the catheter and opened the valve so that fluid began to flow into Dean's body. Using two strips of the white medical tape from the pile of items next to the bed, Bobby secured the IV in place against Dean's arm.

"Hand me one of them syringes," Bobby asked Abe. 

Opening the sterile package and pulling the cap off, Bobby squeezed a drop out of the top to eliminate any air bubbles, then inserted the needle into the IV port, pushing the entire dose of antibiotics into Dean.

"Now… we wait," Bobby said, his eyes on Dean's still face.

Sam sank down onto the bottom bunk, weariness finally taking hold and digging in. He couldn't move if someone put a gun to his head. 

"Think I'm gonna… lay down a sec," he said, his eyes on Dean as if asking permission.

"Good idea," Bobby replied, grabbing a spare chair from the table and turning it around backwards, straddling it so that he could watch Dean and lean on the back. "You all should get some rest."

"I'm going back to Yeats," Maggie declared.

"No," Abe and Bobby said in unison. Maggie blinked at them in surprise.

"Everyone stays here until we can figure out our next steps," Bobby declared.

"I agree," Abe said.

Maggie snorted. "Oh, well, if _you_ agree—"

"Margaret Anne," Bobby said softly. "It's gonna be okay. Just… just stay."

Maggie reacted to her full name, nodding, then leaned forward and covered her face with her hands. Abe slid sad eyes over to Sam, then back to Dean. He stepped to the doorway, then looked back at Bobby.

"Someone needs to keep watch," he said. "I'll take the first shift."

Sam watched Bobby nod, reach up and flick off the light, and they were wrapped in the soft gray of night. Sam was suddenly aware that he couldn't see Dean. He could hear him breathing, but he could also hear Sal's soft maniacal laughter, the rustle of Bobby's wiry beard as he scratched his chin, Maggie's muffled sobs as she mourned her friend, the click of Abe's ring against the silver bangle he now wore on his wrist. 

The sounds of night tangled together and wound around Sam until he wanted to come out of his skin. He grabbed his pillow and, mindful of the plastic tubing draping from the corner of the bunk down to his brother's arm, crawled down to the floor. He propped the pillow against the corner between the bed and the wall, leaned back and rested his arm on the bed next to Dean.

"Night's always longer than the day," Bobby commented softly. 

"Yeah," Sam agreed. Especially when you didn't always know if the coming of the day would bring tragedy or peace. He rested the tips of his fingers on the back of Dean's warm hand. "Yeah," he repeated, letting his eyes fall closed.

The wet, ripping sound seemed far way. 

Sam had lost all sense of time, his sleep the deep, dreamless coma of the exhausted. He heard the sound like that of an itch in the back of his mind. Confused, he opened his eyes, surprised to see Maggie laying on the lower bunk, her back to him. A second empty syringe lay capped on the floor next to him, meaning Maggie or Bobby had remembered to give Dean his dose of medicine.

He turned his head and saw Bobby resting his head sideways on the back of the chair, snoring softly. Dean lay as he had before, but Sam felt the difference in the warmth of his brother's skin under his stiff fingers. Sam licked his lips, thinking that maybe what had woken him was the fact that the fever was leaving Dean. 

He could see Abe sitting slumped against the porch post, the infant light of dawn just barely grazing the horizon. Stretching his arms out in front of him, Sam rolled his neck, cracking the joints and easing the stiffness. He pushed his sore muscles forward, rocking to his knees… and froze.

Sal was in the corner, panting a crazed laugh, his face bloody, his wrists bloody, his mangled arm a gory mess. Ropes saturated with his own blood hung from his right wrist and his left hand was pulling, tearing at gouges he'd made in his chest overnight.

"Jesus," Sam exclaimed. Dean jerked at his tone, groaning, his eyes blinking open.

"Sam?" he whispered.

"Oh, Christ," Sam stood. "Bobby! Abe! Wake up."

Dean tried to push himself up, but his arms trembled. He winced. "Sam?"

Bobby's head jerked and he clumsily wiped drool from the corner of his mouth. Abe stumbled into the room and the bunk bed squeaked as Maggie sat up.

"What?" Bobby muttered, then his gaze sharpened on Sam. "What is it?"

"We've got… trouble," Sam informed them, pointing.

In horror, they all stared into the corner as Sal quietly ripped his skin from his ribs, the light leaving his crazed eyes as the wet _shuck_ sickened the onlookers. No one moved. No one breathed. 

_You're gonna pay for what you did to my brother_… Sam's words came back to haunt him in the final moments of the hustler's life. Sal's hand fell away from his shattered torso, his head lolled back as the gaze of empty eyes rolled to the ceiling.

_Oh God,_ Sam thought. _What have I done?_

With stuttering grace like an image from a still-motion camera, the ikiryoh began to climb free from Sal's chest, spilling blood and organs in its wake, emerging clean, gray skin glowing eerily, dark hair dusting an innocent face.

Sam gasped as it lifted black eyes to take them all in.

And smiled.

* * *

a/n: So, I kinda missed Dean writing this, but rest assured, things get a little worse for him before they get better. Well, not just Dean. All of them. But thus is the fate for all heroes' journeys. 

Oh, and she's gonna kill me for telling you this, but the character of Maggie is based on my good friend Thru Terry's Eyes. Down to the tattoo. Maggie's story grows a bit in the coming chapters and I hope I do right by her. If not… well… searches for couch to hide behind

Playlist—not much of a list this time, but I had to have music. I was missing it.

_Turn the Page_ by Bob Seger (and the Silver Bullet Band)


	7. Glance

**Disclaimer/Spoilers**: See Chapter 1

a/n: I have no excuse, only humble apologies for my lateness. The good news is, Chapter 8 is started and the wait should be shorter between this chapter and the last—specifically because I'm no longer also writing a Virtual Season story anymore. If you can forgive me, I really hope to see you back.

Thank you all for reading, for reviewing, for marking your alerts for this story. It's been a balm for me to write midst some rather chaotic times both in fanfic-land and personally. I am completely thrilled that you have enjoyed this ride so far.

The lyrics at the beginning of each chapter have all been excerpts from Zeppelin's fantastic _In the Light_—the inspiration for the title of this story—and each excerpt has meant something to the particular chapter assigned. This excerpt, however, not only means something to the chapter, but also to me.

I send you all light from my heart in thanks for your constant support and encouragement through reviews and emails.

Copious thanks and groveling to my beta, Kelly, who finds the random typos and word choices that would otherwise be rather embarrassing. Oh, and Kel, I heard you and I made some alterations to help lead in to Chapter 8.

www

_"And if you feel that you can't go on. And your will's sinkin' low  
Just believe and you can't go wrong.  
In the light you will find the road."_

_-- Led Zeppelin, "In the Light"_

_"…if it's the last thing I do, I'm gonna save you…"_

www

Darkness held the power of concealment. Nothing could hide in the light; the dark kept secrets from the secret keeper. Taunted with pacifying falsehood.

Darkness was intoxicating, thrilling. It allowed for pain and pleasure to mix into one without judgment, without contempt. It embraced lies with a dead reckoning.

Darkness knew fear and wrapped itself in it with delicious abandon.

Riding the wave of terror, greed, lust, hate, the being grew strong. Each waning breath opened its eyes further, each memory like a jolt of electrified influence making it solid, real, present.

It wanted…more.

_Now_.

It wanted…them.

www

The terror in Sam's voice catapulted Dean over the edge of awareness with dizzying speed. He couldn't bring his eyes into focus, couldn't reconcile the sounds filtering in through the maze in his ears with the reality he knew should be grounding him. He tried to reach for Sam, tried to leverage himself up in bed, but something inside of him was broken. He was moving through mud, breathing water, weariness and weakness preventing him from doing what he somehow _knew_ needed to be done: get to Sam.

Sam gasped, a young, frightened sound. A wordless plea that called to Dean with the intuition of birth order. Dean blinked, trying to pry heavy eyes apart, trying to pull the world into focus. But the world was tilting and Dean was falling.

The world was tilting and Sam was scared.

Sam was scared and the world was tilting and _God_ his arm was so heavy…

"Mother of God…"

_Bobby_… Dean started. That was _Bobby's _voice. Bobby was here? _What all have I missed?_

"Sam?" His voice sounded hollow and empty in his head, as if he were speaking in a dream, his body moving in reality, leaving his consciousness behind.

He tried again, focusing his fragile strength into his arm, forcing it to rise from the flat of the bed to touch the sleeve that he knew belonged to his brother. He knew, though he couldn't clearly see him. He knew, though Sam's voice had wavered with denial and disbelief. He knew, because he'd been watching out for Sam all his life.

He'd know him in the dark.

_Don't forget in the dark what you learned in the light…_ Abe's admonishing suddenly sliced through Dean's fever-clouded brain, twisting the blurred colors of his vision to sharpened clarity as though his mind were a camera lens.

And there was Sam.

Standing next to the bed Dean lay on, staring with wide, shock-filled eyes round in a pale, drawn face at something across the room. Something that Dean knew he needed to see. Something that Dean instinctively feared.

"Sam. Answer me." Strength born from the instinct to protect flooded Dean's words, filling them with weight and light that he didn't really have inside of him. He left no room for argument in his demand. He wanted to hear his brother's voice _right the hell now_.

"Dean, it's—" Sam choked out.

The sound coming from the other side of the room suddenly raked Dean's spine with cold fingers of horror and dread. It was a needle running backwards on a record. It was a slipping fan belt of a car engine. It was a moth beating itself to death against a light bulb.

Rising to support himself on his elbow, his seared, bandaged mid-section whimpering in protest of motion, Dean turned his head and saw the gore that had stilled his brother with revulsion.

The ikiryoh jerked, stuttered, climbing free, impossibly, from Sal's eviscerated body. It raised dark eyes in a smoky face and opened its mouth to once again let out the inhuman cry, causing a chill to snake through Dean's body. He was acutely aware of the others in the room, all staring with shock and disbelief at the creature moving with spidery legs toward the wall behind Sal's body, stepping without thought on Sal's blank face, small feet pressing into the empty, dead eyes.

Dean swallowed, closing his eyes to ward off the slow spin of reality.

"Bastard beat me to it," he muttered, opening his eyes once more, trying to comprehend the sight of the mutilated body sprawled on the floor beneath the boarded-up window. "'Course," he rasped. "I wouldn't have left him as…juicy."

"What?" Sam finally said, looking down at Dean incredulously. "What are you _talking_ about?"

The chittering cackle called Dean's attention away from Sam once more. Shifting his hip up further in the bed, Dean rubbed his eyes. "I have no idea."

"We… we need to… leave… or…" Abe breathed, apparently unable to tear his eyes from the creature. "Sam. We need to get out of here."

"Yeah…" Sam breathed in reply.

Dean looked at Sam's profile, then slid his eyes to Abe. Their faces held the same shocked expression, their eyes unfocused. Worry drew Dean's brows close and he shifted slightly to take in Maggie standing back by the opened door, and Bobby at the foot of the bed.

"What the hell is wrong with you guys?" Dean barked, wishing the sound that had emanated from his dry, cracked lips hadn't been so thin, so weak. _Move your ass, Dean. __**Now.**_

The ikiryoh's laugh filled even the deepest shadows of the small, square room. It was the sound of mutilated delight, churning Dean's stomach with nauseous dread. He tried to roll to his side, ease the pressure off his abused abdominal muscles, and realized suddenly that he was tethered by plastic tubing. He looked down at his arm, saw the taped needle pulling against his skin as he moved.

Without a word, he reached over and grasped the end of the catheter, pulling the needle free of his arm with a forceful yank, and spilling a thin line of dark-red blood from the crook of his elbow down his forearm to his wrist.

Still no one moved. Frowning, Dean pressed both hands flat on the mattress, pushing himself to a shaking seated position in the bed. The blood from his arm began to soak into the white sheet. A low thrum of his heartbeat climbed up behind his eyes and he shook his head roughly, trying to maintain the focus he'd latched on to moments ago.

"Hey!" He said into the thick silence surrounding the other people in the room.

The ikiryoh mocked him, repeating his call with what sounded like rotting vocal chords. Dean could feel the shift in power, in strength from the last time he'd seen the creature inside the _Hideout_. It had grown, and with it, its formidable influence over the dark inside them all.

Dean shot his head over to the creature, watching in awe as it began to climb the wall above Sal. Backwards. Its hands and feet affixed to the wall, its naked, pale, child-like body writhed as what passed for muscles moved beneath its translucent skin, its eyes remained up, and pinned to…Sam.

Dean reached out once more, the blood from his arm sliding in a smear around the base of his thumb. He grabbed Sam's arm roughly.

_Mine…_

"NO!" Dean yelled, looking over as the ikiryoh continued its slow, upward climb. "No, he's _not_ yours."

Sam blinked, as if waking from a long sleep, when Dean's hand touched his wrist, skin against skin, warmth against warmth, reality.

"What—"

"Snap out of it!" Dean shook his arm again. "What the _hell _is wrong with you?"

Sam looked down at Dean's hand, then his blue-gray eyes traveled the path of blood from Dean's hand and met his brother's eyes. He took a breath, blinking his eyes rapidly.

"Dean," Sam licked his lips. "What did you do?" He reached out and grasped Dean's wrist, turning his arm over.

Dean jerked his arm free. "Forget about me," he said, swallowing a cough he felt climb the back of his throat. "You guys are acting like—"

"We…must leave," Abe whispered again, as if talking were akin to pushing a boulder up a hill.

"Can't you hear that, man?" Sam asked, tears hiding under his voice. "It's… it keeps…calling out… crying."

Dean looked back at the ikiryoh. It had reached the bend of the wall where brick met the wood of the ceiling. Impossibly, as though reality had turned the snow globe of life upside down, the creature began to crawl backwards across the ceiling, staring down at the empty faces tracking it below.

And it laughed at them. Dean felt himself shake with the sound. Anger flared, white-hot and strong.

"You son of a bitch," he growled. "You're not taking him. You're _not taking_ any of them."

The ikiryoh looked at him then, tar-black eyes full of everything and nothing meeting green eyes hungry for resolution, and Dean felt himself begin to bleed inside, his heart curling into a fist as he forgot who he was, forgot why he cared, forgot that he mattered.

"God… it's so… miserable…" Sam's heartbroken voice chewed through the fog that had wrapped around Dean's awareness and he closed his eyes with force, breaking the contact of the ikiryoh.

"Sam!" Dean called, curling his legs to the side, intending to push himself free of the bed to grab his brother's wide shoulders and shake some sense back into him. The room spun around him, drawing his eyelids down, and forcing him to grab the edge of the bed to still the motion. "Sam, _please_…"

_Hear me… focus on me… find me… don't let go… I'll fall if you let go…_

And then time turned inside out. Dean saw with startling clarity the movement on the edge of his periphery while the motion directly in front of him became blurry, distorted, distant. It was only when he felt the burning-cold touch of the creature's dead fingers on his bare chest that he realized the ikiryoh had dropped from the ceiling to land on top of him, straddling him with the tenacious, monkey-like grip of a child, its head tilting sideways with curiosity, its mouth opening to emit a nails-on-chalkboard sound of light dying.

"Aw, fuck me…" Dean breathed, and then sound and motion ceased.

He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, could do nothing but stare, open-mouthed, at the embodiment of pain and suffering. At his demise.

"DEAN!"

Sam's hands on his arm. Sam's voice in his head.

"Son of a bitch."

Bobby's curse breaking free from imprisoned lips. The sound of metal scraping across wood as the Glock was retrieved.

"Oh, God in Heaven."

Maggie's whisper like a screamed plea for mercy, the sound of thunder rolling across the sky through the opened door behind her like an answer. Boots shuffling across a worn floor as she backed away.

_"Maajaan azhigwa!"_

Abe's sturdy voice cracking like a bow breaking beneath the weight of the world, the sound of leather against denim as he reached for Sam, to step in as protector when the guardian had fallen.

A click of a chamber, the burn of a bullet through the air, the smell of gunpowder, the screech of indignation, and Dean was free.

"Holy _shit!" _Dean exclaimed, shaking uncontrollably. He tried to scramble higher in the bed, away, just away.

The ikiryoh jerked and spasmed again as Bobby fired round after round into the creature's pale, thin body. Dark bursts of dust seemed to plume up from its chest as the bullets bore into it, forcing it away from Dean, backing it down, but not killing it.

Dean continued to move, away not being far enough. He didn't register that he'd been naked beneath the sheets until his backside cracked hard against the worn floor and the chill shocked him into clarity. Pressing his now blood-smeared hand against the bandages tightly wound across his belly, Dean looked down at his bare legs with honest surprise.

"Where the hell are my pants?" he breathed to no one in particular.

Lightning blinked like a far-away strobe, warning of the coming ferocity that would come with the rocking of the thunder clash. Sam immediately crouched down beside him, Bobby's shots having freed them all from the humming thrall of the ikiryoh.

"You okay?"

Dean looked up at his brother, noting with immense relief that Sam was _Sam_ again, clear-eyed, his face lined with concern and urgency.

"I'm naked," Dean replied.

"You bleeding again?" Sam pulled Dean's hand away from his bandages.

"Dude, where are my _pants_?"

Sam swallowed, his shoulders relaxing a fraction with relief when he saw the blood was from the IV site and not the infected belly wound.

"You're still pretty warm," Sam said, his hand on Dean's bare shoulder. "But not as bad."

The stuttering _uh-uh-uh_ of the ikiryoh's guttural inhale drew their eyes up. The being had retreated to the far upper corner of the room, only its eyes glinting in the gray light of the stormy dawn, showing half-crescents of silver intent.

"Maggie, out," Bobby said, the Glock still pointed at the corner of the room, his dark-blue eyes not leaving his prey. "Abe, help Dean. Sam, get the bag of weapons."

"Bobby—" Maggie started.

"Move your asses, people! Now!" Bobby's command left no room for questions, only motion.

Dean shot his eyes over to the door and saw Maggie dart out into the rain, her white-blond hair plastering against her skull. Sam started to tuck his hand under Dean's arm to pull him upright as Abe approached.

"Hold on!" Dean said, trying to resist his brother's strong arm. "I'm not going out there _naked_."

"You gotta be kidding me," Sam grumbled, rocking back on his heels and pulling Dean up on legs as steady as a newborn colt. Abe grabbed the white blanket from the bed and wrapped it around Dean's shoulders.

Still frowning, Dean allowed the Ojibwa to grip his upper arm as he tried to take a step forward and nearly pitched onto his face. Sam scurried to the table to grab up the bag of weapons as Bobby kept the gun trained on the ikiryoh. It hissed like a caged cat, its tiny teeth glinting briefly in the light.

"Sam," Dean's eyes caught on the flask of holy water lying next to the bag. Sam grabbed it, stuffed it in the bag, then pulled out Dean's Bowie knife.

"Here," he said, thrusting the hilt toward his brother. "Get dressed."

Dean gratefully reached his hand through the gathered blanket and took the weapon from Sam's outstretched hand, feeling the cloth move against his fever-sensitive skin as he made his way out of the door, Abe's hand guiding and supporting him.

Sam followed close behind and Bobby backed out with him.

_MINE!_

"Go to hell, you tar-eyed bastard," Bobby growled in reply to the screech that bowed them all, pulling the door shut. "Sam," he snapped. "Tell me you have some salt in that bag."

"Uh…" Sam dug through the bag quickly as Abe helped Dean down the stairs of the porch to stand in the rain. "I have salt in the bag," Sam told him, grabbing a half-filled can and handing it to the older hunter.

Dean felt the cold mud squish between his bare toes, the rain beating through his thin barrier like a Swedish masseuse. Bobby handed the Glock back to Sam, then poured the salt at the base of the door, windows, running around to the other side of the small house to cover the broken picture window in the back.

When he returned, he pointed to Abe's truck. "Get in. Everybody rides."

"Where are we going?" Sam asked as Abe obediently turned Dean toward the truck, herding a shell-shocked Maggie before him.

"To Maggie's."

"What about Yeats?" Maggie asked, turning to face Bobby, rain traveling her face like tears.

"We'll come back for him, Mags," Bobby said gently, cupping her face and turning her to face the truck.

Dean felt the mud pull at his feet, splash up his legs, weariness twisting around his legs like vines and anchoring him to earth. He heard Sam toss the weapons back in the bed of the truck, heard the door creak open, and felt hands lift him inside, mindful of his wounds. He wanted to squirm, push against the help, resist, but his body was hollow and his heart beat too hard behind his eyes.

"Just take it easy, Dean," his brother's voice was inside his head, his body close, trapping the thin, wet blanket around Dean's scarred body.

Dean nodded wearily and dropped his head back as Bobby climbed in on his left, Sam pressing close to his right as Maggie perched on Abe's lap and, impossibly, all five adults rode in the cab of the truck up to Maggie's house.

As their wet bodies steamed up the windows, Bobby leaned forward to wipe away a clear spot. Dean was momentarily surprised when Bobby didn't ask for directions, then remembered it had been Bobby who told them where to go, who to ask for.

"Salt's not going to hold it forever," Sam pointed out.

"I know," Bobby returned.

"It's tied to her," Abe interjected. "To Claire."

"We know where Claire is?" Bobby asked.

"No," Maggie whispered brokenly. "She left after she killed Yeats."

"I thought you said—" Sam started

"Doesn't matter who pulled the damn trigger, she killed him," Maggie spat at Sam, daring him to contradict her.

Dean was silent as they pulled up to the front door and clamored out, Sam keeping his hands on Dean's shoulders, Bobby grabbing the weapons bag from the back. They stood in the entrance of the house, dripping on the area rug, panting as if they'd run up the hill to Maggie's instead of cramming into the truck.

Dean shivered, and that motion prompted Sam to push him further into the house. As he felt his body shutting down like a computer system going off-line, Dean allowed his brother to guide him into the kitchen, ignoring the way the wet blanket hung on his shoulders, clinging to the muscles of his arms, back, rear-end, legs. Ignoring the way the bandages absorbed the wet of the cotton. Ignoring the pointed way no one looked directly at him.

"I need a drink," he whispered, dropping gingerly into the chair Sam pulled out for him.

"I'll get you some water," Sam offered, starting to move away. Bobby set the weapons bag on the kitchen counter, and began pulling supplies free, laying them side by side next to the bag.

"That's not a drink," Dean grumbled, propping his elbow on the table and dropping his forehead into his upturned palm, gripping the knife hilt and blanket together in his other hand. The rain had washed away the blood on his arm, and the small puncture wound had closed up, but the stain of pink was splashed across the white.

"You're not getting alcohol," Sam informed him. "Do you know how much medicine we pumped into you last night?"

"No," Dean replied sullenly, his voice directed at the table, shivering as the warmth of the house combated the wet of his covering.

"You need clothes," Maggie declared.

"_Ya think_?" Dean retorted, in no mood to coddle anyone.

"I've got some," Maggie informed him and turned from the room.

Abe disappeared around the corner and returned moments later arms laden with several towels. He handed one to Sam, one to Bobby, and set three in front of Dean. Helping Dean slide the wet blanket from his shaking shoulders, Abe wrapped a warm, dry towel around him, opening one for modesty's sake, and helping Dean pull the wet blanket free before covering up with the other towels.

Sighing in satisfaction, Dean dropped his head back onto his hand, beginning to feel an odd weightlessness as if he were no longer a part of his body. In the world, but not of it. Sam started to dig through the cabinets, and Dean rolled his head on his hand as he watched his brother pull out fixings for coffee.

"I could kiss you right now," Dean muttered when the rich aroma off the coffee wafted from the bag of ground beans Sam opened.

"Dude, we've got company," Sam quipped, not looking at him.

Abe dropped into the chair across from Dean, then rubbed his face. "What are we going to do?"

"What we always do," Bobby and Dean replied in unison.

Abe looked at Dean, his dark eyes weary, his lined face pulled tight across sharp cheekbones, his wet braid lying over his shoulder. The silver earring dangled, catching the light from the storm outside as lightning chased itself across the sky.

"What _is_ that?" Abe asked. "How do you always do _something_?"

Dean frowned, feeling a sadness roll from his friend like clouds over a freshly-dug grave. "We have to," he tried to explain. "We know what's out there."

The coffee maker began to gurgle in the background and Dean saw Sam lean a hip against the counter, rubbing a hand over his wet hair, wiping his palm down his face. He had flipped the towel Abe handed him around his shoulders like a cape, soaking the wet from his long-sleeved shirt.

"How can you…how do you live like this?" Abe asked, looking uncomfortable in his helplessness.

"We didn't always," Dean started. "We were a normal family once. A long time ago." He kept his head in his hand, not trusting his body to hold itself upright. "We had dinner together, and went on walks. We watched TV and went to Sunday school. We didn't always know that nightmares were real and that monsters really did live in your closet."

Dean shifted his eyes to Bobby watching the older hunter load up the sawed-off shotgun with rounds of rock salt, checking the clip of Dean's .45 and Sam's Glock. Sliding a knife out from beneath Maggie's counter as though he'd placed it there himself. _Maybe he had…_

"When did the curtain get pulled back?" Abe asked, and Dean felt his eyes. He met them.

"When I was four."

Abe cursed, rubbing his face again.

"I didn't really know exactly what the deal was, though. Not for awhile at least. And Dad tried to keep it from Sam," Dean glanced at his brother, who was leaning on the counter, arms crossed over his chest, feet crossed at the ankles, eyes on the ground. "But there's only so many times you can explain away the reasons why Dad came home bloody, late, or not at all. Sam was always too smart for his own good."

"Why don't you just… quit?" Abe asked.

"Quit?" Dean asked, incredulous. "What, just walk away? Leave that…dead kid ghost thing hanging out in Maggie's back yard?"

"Not quit this…hunt," Abe placated. "Quit this life. Quit hunting. Live… regular."

"You can't quit what you were born to be," Sam replied, still looking at the ground. He lifted his eyes and Dean registered their bleak stare. "You can't run from destiny."

"Bullshit," Bobby commented, shoving a clip into an extra 9mm they'd picked up along the way, and turning to face Sam. "No such thing as destiny."

Sam narrowed his eyes at Bobby. "You really believe that?"

"Hell, yeah," Bobby nodded. He tipped his hat-brim up with the tip of his index finger. "You always got a choice. You remember that." Bobby pointed a finger at Sam and Dean watched his brother's lips thin, unable or unwilling to contradict their mentor.

Dean sighed, shivering again as his worn and weary muscles protested being upright. The skin on his stomach was hot; he was sure if he looked down steam would be rising from his still-damp skin. He sighed and looked at Abe.

"We can't quit," he told him softly. "You can't… stop knowing something is out there, stop knowing you can do something about it… We'd let the darkness win."

Abe nodded, his eyes registering understanding and reluctant acceptance. "But just because you know…doesn't mean you have to fight…"

Dean lifted a shoulder. "What else can we do?"

Abe looked at him. "Prepare? Educate?"

Sam poured a mug of coffee and set the hot, black beverage in front of his brother. Dean still didn't let go of the knife hilt, allowing the towel around his shoulders to drop to his waist as he reached for the mug.

"Prepare for what? Educate who?" Sam challenged. "It's all about fighting, Abe. Fighting who you are. Fighting what they are. Fighting…" Sam looked at Dean and pulled his lips together. "Fighting what you might become."

"Sam," Dean tried, feeling Sam's dread cloak him like a cloud, but was interrupted by Maggie's return.

She had changed into dry clothes; her blonde hair ruffled up in short spikes, her bright eyes red-rimmed and swollen. She stepped into the room, clothes over her arm, and gravitated to the coffee maker. Pouring herself a mug, she took a bracing swig before turning to Dean.

"Here," she said, holding the clothes out individually. There were socks, jeans, a white T-shirt, and a red and black flannel shirt. "There are boots in the hall, but I don't know if they'll fit."

Dean reached for the clothes. "You used to date a lumberjack?"

Maggie slid her eyes to the side. "They're Bobby's."

"What?" Sam bleated.

"Mine?" Bobby's shocked voice cracked like static on a phone line.

"You left them when…" Maggie cleared her throat, taking a sip of coffee. "And I just never bothered to get rid of them."

"Mags…" Bobby breathed.

"We've got work to do," Maggie looked away from Bobby, her eyes hitting Dean with the impact of an accusation. "You need some tending."

"We left the medicine in the safe house," Abe lamented.

"I'll be fine," Dean tried.

"Stop it," Sam cut him off. "Don't try that macho bullshit with us now, man. You were on the edge last night."

"Yeah," Dean took a sip of coffee. "But I didn't go over."

"Not this time," Sam gripped the back of an empty kitchen chair, _thunking _it firmly on the floor in frustration. "But you don't know when to quit!"

"Thought we just told Abe—"

"You know what I mean!" Sam snapped, irritation clouding his face.

Dean sighed. He didn't have the strength to keep pushing Sam. He didn't think he had the strength to change into these clothes. Bobby's clothes. He shook his head. _The universe has a twisted sense of humor…_

"That's what your Dad said," Abe interjected softly.

Dean went cold. It took a conscious effort to remember that he had to pull in breath to stay conscious. "Wh-what?"

Abe cleared his throat, looking at Dean with warmth in his dark brown eyes. Dean allowed that look to seep into him, buoying his suddenly heavy heart. The reminder that Abe had a moment of understanding, a moment of conversation with his dad that he hadn't been a part of, that he'd barely missed, caused him to literally ache.

"He said that you didn't know how to quit," Abe said. "He said it with pride in his voice."

Dean pulled up the side of his mouth in a quiet, rueful grin, glancing down at the table. When Abe spoke again, Dean kept his chin down, looking up at the Ojibwa through his lashes.

"But," Abe went on when the quiet pressed in around them. "There's a difference between quitting, and deciding to stop."

"Dean," Bobby said, taking charge once more as the group faded into the thick of exhaustion, each staring into their own middle distance while memories and fears danced a jig on their hearts. "Go get changed. Sam, you help him. Abe, we need to get our weapons cached. Maggie—"

"Don't." Maggie's voice was clean and cold, decisively separating herself from Bobby's group of Musketeers. "Just… just don't."

"Right," Bobby said softly, his eyes taking in Dean, then resting on Sam. "Boys?"

"We're going," Sam assured him. He took the clothes from the pile on the counter, then turned to Dean. "Need a hand?"

"I got it," Dean shook his head, trying to work out how he was going to keep the towels up and carry both the coffee and the knife.

"Leave the knife, Dean," Sam instructed.

"Like hell," Dean shot back, lifting his hot eyes to his brother's face.

Sam sighed. "Fine," he grumbled, picking up the coffee mug. "Let's go."

The trip down the hall to the guest bathroom was slow going. Dean used the wall and his shoulder to keep himself moving in a semi-straight line. He felt Sam close behind, heard him breathing, sensed him thinking. _Just once I'd like to have a clean hunt, no higher meaning, no deep angst, no life lessons… just a salt and burn and the worlds down one ghost._

"Dean?" Sam's voice dragged him to a stop in front of the bathroom door. "You, uh, need to go in and…"

"Right," Dean nodded, realizing for the first time that Sam was right. It had been awhile. Using the sink as support, the knife blade clinking against the porcelain, pushing aside the med kit balanced on the counter's edge, Dean relieved himself, sighing with the satisfaction of eased pressure, then dropped down on the closed lid to catch his breath.

"Safe?" Sam called.

"Yeah."

"Let me check your bandage," Sam ordered, dropping the clothes on the floor, sitting on the edge of the bathtub next to Dean.

Reluctantly, Dean set the knife down on the countertop, uncurling his stiff fingers from the handle. He leaned back, his bare skin against the cold tank, closing his eyes and breathing slow, even breaths as Sam carefully peeled away the bandages. He heard his brother's abbreviated hiss of worry and looked down.

"Damn," he muttered at the sight of his wounded belly. The bruising around the puncture was dark purple edged in yellow, his muscles tender to the touch and weeping from his movement. The skin was crusted and scabbed from the burn, and there were cracks in the shallow puncture that caused an instantaneous reaction of wetness in Dean's mouth.

"Nasty," Sam commented.

"Aw, stop, Sammy. You're gonna hurt my feelings."

"Believe it or not," Sam shrugged, lifting an eyebrow. "It actually looks better than last night."

"How would you know?" Dean asked. "You were… hey!"

"Hmm?" Sam prompted, using the med kit Maggie had left sitting out on the counter to clean and re-wrap Dean's wound.

"You were… playing sushi to that Japanese spirit… how… how did it get into Sal?" Dean finished his sentence through teeth clenched against the hot needle of pain that sliced him from belly to spine as Sam taped the gauze in place.

"I put it there."

"_You_ did?"

"Yes," Sam sat back, exasperated. "Why does everyone keep saying that?"

"I just… you were…" Dean swallowed. _Sam_ had put the ikiryoh into Sal. The ikiryoh had killed Sal. Like it would have killed Sam. "I thought I was gonna… lose you, man."

"Yeah, well," Sam grabbed the T-shirt and handed it to Dean. "That's karma for you. I've thought that about you twice now in two days."

"I hate karma," Dean grumbled, carefully pulling the T-shirt over his head. "So," he said, catching his breath once more. "Did Bobby bring the IV?"

"Abe did."

"Abe?"

"Got it from someone…" Sam shrugged, rolling the socks up and starting to slip them on Dean's bare feet.

"Dude, what the hell?" Dean exclaimed, jerking his foot back.

Sam lifted an eyebrow, looking at Dean's wounded middle. "Can you bend over and reach your feet? I didn't think so."

Dean sighed, grudgingly allowing Sam to help him with the socks. His hands were starting to feel like lead weights hanging at his sides and pulling at the strained muscles of his shoulders, so he brought them up and rested them in his towel-covered lap. "This is one messed up hunt," he muttered, letting his heavy eyes drift shut.

"Hey, don't do that."

"Hmm?"

"Open your eyes, Dean."

"I'm just resting."

"No." Sam's voice was suddenly too young and too old at the same time. Dean opened his eyes and lifted his head. "Not yet, okay? Just… don't go anywhere yet."

"Sam, I'm right here."

"You don't get it, man." Sam pushed himself to his feet. "I mean, I… I thought that… that the more people I saved, the more I could change, and I... I killed someone today."

"What?!"

"And…I did it because I didn't know how else to save you." Sam's eyes were bleak as Dean tried to see past his own reflection when he looked at his brother.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Sal."

"You didn't kill him," Dean shook his head once. "That… iki…Japanese thing did."

"Because _I_ put it there," Sam pointed to its chest. "I knew what it was going to do to Sal. I _wanted_ him to pay for what he'd done to you."

"Well, so did I, but—"

"No, see, that's just it. You said you wanted to kill him, sure, but you wouldn't have."

"I didn't exactly get the chance," Dean hedged, keeping a close watch on his brother.

Sam started to pace the tiny bathroom like a large, gangly tiger. His hair was drying from the rainstorm, curling up at the edges giving his face a mask of innocence that his eyes denied. Sam had seen too much to ever be innocent again, Dean knew.

"Maybe… maybe this is it, Dean."

Dean reached out to grip the counter as Sam's pacing made him dizzy. "Maybe _what_ is it?"

"Maybe what I'm gonna become isn't gonna be some sudden transformation. Maybe it's a slow… dying process."

"Sam—"

"Maybe I'm already that person that Dad said you would have to kill. Maybe—"

"SAM."

Sam stopped pacing, turning to face Dean, his mouth clicking shut with a snap of teeth.

"I want you to listen to me very carefully."

Sam blinked.

"I remember what you said last night. I remember you said you believed me. That I didn't blame you."

Sam nodded.

"You still believe me, Sam?"

Sam nodded again.

"You. Are. Not. A. Killer."

"But—"

"Eh! No. You said you believed me."

"I do, but—"

"Then shut up," Dean sighed, dropping his chin to his chest. "And help me with these pants."

For a moment Sam didn't move. Dean held his breath, not sure he had the strength to keep arguing. The swiftly tilting planet had a mind of its own and it seemed as far as Dean Winchester was concerned, balance was not a criteria.

Sullenly, Sam shuffled over to Dean, picking up the jeans and lowering his shoulder so that Dean could grip it and stand up. Dean felt Sam turn his head away as he stepped into the leg, then held his breath once more as Sam helped him ease the waist up.

"Dude," Dean exclaimed, buttoning the worn fly. "I can't friggin' believe I'm going commando in Bobby's jeans."

"I'm sure they've been washed." Sam assured him.

Dean tossed him a look, his eyebrows in inverted V's. "So not the point, man." He sat down once more, reaching for the long-sleeved shirt. "At this rate, that ghost kid is going to be attending college before I can get out there."

"You're not going back there." Sam declared.

"Says who?" Dean pulled his head back, eyes narrowed in surprise.

"Me."

"Why?"

"Why?!"

Dean lifted his eyebrows in a _did I stutter_ look.

"Because you still have a fever. Because you can barely stand. Because you have a hole in your stomach—"

"Everyone has a hole in their stomach."

"—because your shoulder isn't healed. Dammit, because _I said so._"

Dean barked out a laugh, pulling the flannel shirt on slowly. "You forget who the oldest is, Sammy?"

"No." Sam shook his head. "No, I didn't. I didn't forget because I almost lost you. And I can't lose you, Dean. Not like that. Not like Dad. I'd rather die first."

Dean looked up, surprised, chagrined, horrified. Tears hovered on the edge of Sam's large eyes and he was clenching and unclenching his fists with an urgent, desperate energy. The image of Sam's face, devastated because he couldn't save the people at the hotel in Cornwell slid over Dean's memory, only to be washed away by the sight of Sam handing him a gun, asking him to shoot. _Begging_ him to keep his promise. His promise that would go against the one thing Dean had worked for his entire life: keeping Sam safe.

_I'd rather die…_

"You're all I got, man," Sam whispered.

"Same goes for you," Dean replied softly. "It's the same, Sam."

Sam nodded. "I know." He swallowed, his eyes speaking words Dean knew he couldn't say. Dean pushed his heart up, out. Showing Sam the silent words weren't met with emptiness. "Dean, it's… I mean, I know what I said. I know it's our job. I know it's what Dad would want us to do—"

"We don't know that, Sam," Dean said softly.

Silence held sway for two heartbeats.

"It's just not worth it to me. It's not worth _you,_" Sam confessed.

Dean swallowed, nodding as Sam's lips folded up in resistance to the single tear that fell. Sam slid his eyes to the side, working to gather himself, to still the tears of tragedy averted, crisis passed. Dean knew it was always after the near-miss that he started shaking. He was seeing that in Sam now.

John would have pushed forward. Would have finished the job. Would have made sure the bad guy was toast. Would have left them behind to do it.

"You're right, Sam."

"I am?"

Dean nodded once more. He wasn't John. No matter how much he'd wanted to be, no matter how much he'd tried, he'd never be his father.

"So, we, uh… we tell Bobby that… we… quit?"

Dean blinked. Bobby was here. With Abe's help he could defeat the ikiryoh. Maybe this time… maybe they didn't have to be the ones who stopped the madness. Maybe this was how he could save Sam.

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but… yeah."

With an exhale of relief, Sam reached out for Dean. Dean lifted his hand, grabbing his brother, thumb to thumb, and gripped him back, letting Sam pull him to his feet.

"We're not gonna…hug or anything, are we?" Dean asked with trepidation.

"Nah," Sam chuckled. "I might break you."

Dean grinned easily, taking a step forward, the jeans big at the waist and settling low on his narrow hips, dragging a bit at the foot. He rolled the sleeves of the red flannel shirt up to the mid-point of his arm. He grabbed his knife, holding it easily at his side.

"Can't believe ten years ago Bobby was the same size as you," Sam commented. "Well, almost."

"What do you think the deal is with those two?"

"Which two?"

"Bobby and Maggie."

Sam lifted a shoulder. "Think they had a thing?"

"You don't keep someone's clothes 'cause they did your taxes."

Dean took another step toward the door.

"Maybe he got rid of a spirit or something for her," Sam mused. "She said that there's all kinds of ways people get into this life, right?"

Dean nodded, opening the bathroom door. He jerked in surprise at the sight of Abe standing on the other side, then pressed his hand to his belly.

"Wait," Abe said softly.

"For what?" Dean replied, matching his tone. Sam stepped up close behind him.

"For them," Abe tilted his head to the side and Dean heard the raised voices from the kitchen. Abe beckoned them out and the trio stood along the hallway, leaning against the wall, listening to the past played out in stereo around the corner.

"…were scared, weren't you, Bobby? You were scared and you left."

"That's not fair," Bobby's voice was barely recognizable to Dean. He'd heard anger, fear, hope, joy, but never… heartbreak. Never regret. "You know _exactly_ why I left."

"So what happened to her wouldn't happen to me."

"Right."

"That's bullshit, Bobby."

"Mags—"

"NO! You don't get to be noble. You don't. Not this time. I'm not _her_."

_Her who? _Dean mouthed to Sam.

Sam shrugged. Dean frowned at him.

"I know you're not."

"Do you? Because the minute you realized you felt something for me, you were gone. Middle of the night, no explanation, no note. For all I knew, that vampire killed you, took you, turned you."

"I killed it."

"Well, I figured that out after about five years of worrying myself sick."

Something heavy clattered on the counter and there was silence. Sam and Dean passed a look between them, but Abe stopped their motion with a quick shake of his head.

"You had Yeats," Bobby offered.

"_YEATS_?!" Maggie's voice was a bleat of incredulity and pain. "My God, Bobby Singer, even after all these years, you're _still _a jackass! Yeats is—_was_—more screwed up than even I could fix. He just didn't have anywhere else to go."

"Maggie," Bobby's voice grew soft. "I never meant to hurt you."

"Bang up job you did on that."

"I thought that leaving was the best way to protect you."

"You thought wrong. I _loved_ you. Do you have any idea what that means?"

Bobby was silent. Dean felt an ache where his heart slammed against his ribs. He'd never heard someone say those words to him before, had no idea what it meant, had no idea howto say them to another, not even Sam. Not even John.

"Bobby," Maggie's voice buckled, need and want slicing through pain and anger. "I never stopped."

"Aww, Maggie."

"I never stopped. You need to know that. You need to _live with_ that. Ten years is a long time."

"It is." Bobby's voice held the sound of crushed gravel as he agreed.

"But six months was longer."

"Six months?"

"You were with me six months, almost to the day, and I woke up to an empty bed and a decade of wondering if you were alive. If you were safe. If you were fighting your demons."

"There are always demons," Bobby said softly. "Fighting all of them is going to take time."

"You don't have to fight them all."

"I have to fight mine, Mags. I have to help these boys fight theirs."

"You really love those boys, don't you?"

Dean looked at Sam, the conversation they'd just had hanging loud in his mind. Sam's eyes were shadowed with obligation.

"Yeah," Bobby answered. "Yeah, I do. They're pretty much the only family I've got. And, well, they've been through hell, Mags."

"They aren't _yours_, though, Bobby."

Bobby's sigh was weighted and Dean closed his eyes as the sound trickled out to a short stint of silence.

"Maybe not," Bobby said softly. "But they're the closest I'll ever get."

Dean felt a nudge on his shoulder and opened his eyes to see Abe nodding toward the kitchen. Dean rolled his shoulder along the wall, sliding down the hall. He could feel his body leaving him, hovering two steps behind his mind, three behind his heart. He sought his reserves of strength and found only hollow echoes of empty silos surrounded by thick, well-constructed walls.

_This sucks out loud…_

They stepped into the kitchen and Dean watched as Bobby and Maggie jumped back away from each other like two teenagers caught by their parents.

"Hey, there, kids," Dean smirked, dropping into the first chair he found and setting his knife on the table. "Leave room for the Holy Ghost," he teased, waggling a finger in the open space between them.

"You get that spell?" Bobby asked Abe, ignoring Dean. Abe pulled a paper from his back pocket. Dean could see a print-out of a web site.

"Right here."

Bobby took a breath. "Okay, boys," he started.

Dean swallowed. "Bobby, Sam and I—"

"Will need some weapons," Sam interrupted, shooting a quick glance at Dean.

_Are you sure_? Dean asked him silently.

Sam blinked, an unspoken assertion. _We have to,_ his hazel eyes told his brother. _We __**have to**__._

_Just don't leave me, Sammy,_ Dean returned silently, not sure what he meant, except that the emotion behind those words was true.

"What is going on with you, two?"

"Nothing," they said in unison, looking back at Bobby.

"Well, I got you weapons. I got plenty of weapons," Bobby grumbled, looking at the arsenal behind him. "Problem is, only half of them will work, and the other half will just slow it down. This thing is strong now. It feeds on hate and darkness, and by the rate it… grew… I'm willing to bet there was enough darkness in that bad guy to make it stronger than any Buddhist sutra."

"Well," Dean nodded, bouncing his knuckles on the table top. "That's just swell."

"It's my fault," Sam whispered.

"Sam," Dean sighed.

"No, Dean, it is. I was so… _angry_… I just wanted to punish him. I didn't think—"

"Well, who else were you going to put it in, Sam?" Maggie broke in. "Your brother? Abe? Me?"

Sam looked at her, silent.

"Stop taking the blame for every damn thing that goes wrong around here. Guilt doesn't solve anything," she finished with a soft grumble.

Sam pulled his bottom lip in, subdued.

"Besides," Abe said into the minimal silence. "I was your talisman."

Sam turned, facing Abe with confusion plain on his face. "Huh?"

"_Migizi_, on your charm."

"Mi-_what_-zi?" Dean asked.

"It is the Ojibwa word for eagle. My name," Abe _thunked_ his chest once with the blunted end of his thumb.

"Well, how do you like that," Bobby breathed.

Dean looked at Bobby. "You knew about this?"

"Well, not _this_," Bobby gestured to Abe. "But I put a protection on the charms so that they would keep you from harm… keep you from being possessed, like I told you."

Dean pulled his charm from his shirt collar, trying to see the etching on the surface that he'd never noticed before.

"It's a wolf," Bobby explained.

Dean looked at Sam, quickly making the connection. "Lobo."

"Like I said," Abe shrugged, "fate draws intersections where we create parallel lines."

"So, if you're my talisman," Sam tilted his head, "long as you're around… nothing bad can happen to me, right?"

Abe looked down. "It would seem that isn't exactly true."

"No, no, wait," Dean shook his head, patting the air with one hand. "He wasn't wearing the charm when the iki-whatever took him."

Sam shook his head, his eyes searching Abe's closed face.

"I thought I told you—" Bobby started, but stopped when Maggie placed a hand on his arm, quieting him.

"That's right. I put it on him," Abe nodded, looking up at Sam.

"And he had the strength to exorcise the… spirit," Dean pointed out. "So, you're good luck, there, Abe."

"A talisman is more than…luck," Abe said.

"Well, whatever," Dean sighed, rolling his neck. "Unless you've got Jedi powers or something, you better be careful when we take out this…spirit thing."

As Bobby turned toward the arsenal of weapons, preparing to distribute them, Dean shivered. He knew with more clarity than he'd ever known anything that taking on this spirit now could be the end of him. His body was heating up, his skin rubbing uncomfortably against the clothes Maggie had provided for him. Rolls of chills spread from his belly through his chest to shimmer through his vision, distorting the images around him, blurring the faces, deadening sound.

Dean licked his lips, unconsciously gripping the edge of the table. He needed to focus, to shove this weakness back, to find his balance. In that moment, Dean felt Sam bounce off his chair as he slid behind it to sit next to him, his forearm stretched out on the table as he leaned forward, his fingers weaving together. Closing his eyes briefly, Dean mirrored Sam's position, allowing his arm to brush his brother's, drawing strength from that contact.

"We can't defeat it without Claire, you said," Maggie challenged Bobby.

"No," Bobby shook his head. "But we can't just leave it in there forever."

"So, what's your plan?"

"We weaken it," Bobby replied, letting his flinty eyes stray from her to Abe, then finally rest on the brothers'.

Dean began to hum, softly, only to himself.

"Claire conjured this thing, right?" Bobby asked.

"She said it wasn't on purpose," Dean said, the melody continuing in his head as he spoke.

"Doesn't matter, it began because of her, it's tied to her."

Abe leaned forward in realization. "Claire has appeared when… when the creature is at its weakest…"

"That's what I'm counting on," Bobby said.

Dean felt the muscles in Sam's forearm flex and he looked down, watching, as his brother tapped softly against the table, in time to the tune that resonated in the back of Dean's throat.

"So… you think that we go in there, weaken it, and she'll just… show up?" Maggie asked, doubt clear in her voice.

Dean's hum turned into whispered words.

_"…we know you've got to blame someone for your own confusion. But we're on guard this time against your final solution…"_

"Exactly," Bobby nodded confidently, seemingly ignoring Dean's now-vocal effort at remaining with them, coherent, alive.

"She's not some ghost, Bobby," Maggie said. "She's a real girl."

Bobby looked down. Dean continued to hum, feeling Sam's fingers tap in time with him. He watched as Bobby pulled at his beard, stroking his fingers along the wiry hair in a familiar gesture of thought.

"Mags," he said finally. "If there were any other way, I promise you…" He looked from Maggie to Abe and the boys again. "I don't want to kill her. I don't want anyone to have to die," he lifted his shoulders in an almost helpless gesture.

_"We know you're out there. But in these new dark ages…There will still be light…"_

Bobby met Dean's eyes. "But she—whether she meant to or not—brought this thing into the world. Into our lives. And it's killing people because of her."

Dean felt Sam stiffen next to him. He held still, silent, letting his strength bleed out and seep into his brother's broken heart. Dean knew that bad guy or not, Sam's guilt about Sal's death was eating him up inside.

"We have to end this," Abe agreed softly. "One way or another."

"All sounds really great when you say it in the safety of this kitchen," Maggie scoffed. "But it's gonna look a whole lot different if we go in there against that thing and leave with another body on our hands."

No one contradicted her.

www

Sam was scared.

He recognized the feeling for what it was, tried to capture it and hide it instead of drawing attention to it, but random images of possible outcomes slid through his periphery. Every time he looked away from Dean.

Sitting next to his brother, he felt the fever-chills shift through Dean, and couldn't help but admire the way a seemingly iron rod of will maneuvered down Dean's spine and set him firmly in the fight even as his body begged for release from reality. While Dean's inability to simply _stop moving_ frustrated and worried Sam, he found himself absorbing it, respecting it, depending up on it.

He needed Dean to keep going… just a little bit longer. Because he didn't know how to move on without him.

"You going to make it, boy?" Bobby was asking Dean. Sam bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from answering in his brother's place.

"'Course," Dean replied, licking his lips.

"Be honest, Dean."

Sam watched as Dean raised his head, meeting Bobby's eyes directly, squaring his shoulders. "I'm in this fight, Bobby."

Sam released the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Reaching up to unconsciously rub at the sore muscles across his chest, Sam met Bobby's stare.

"All I know is," Sam said before Bobby could ask. "I'm gonna sleep for a week when this is all over."

"Amen, bother," Dean muttered.

"Okay, then," Bobby nodded. "We go."

He handed a sawed-off shotgun to Sam, the .45 to Dean, and the other shotgun to Abe.

"There's a rifle in the bar," Maggie offered suddenly. "Yeats—" She broke off, on emotion.

"He gave it to me," Abe said. "It's actually back at the safe house."

"Oh," Maggie said weakly.

"It's okay, Maggie," Bobby assured her. "We've got plenty with the boys' stuff here."

He handed her the Glock and a knife. Sam watched as Maggie's shoulders instantly relaxed at the weight of the blade in her hand. A burble of manic laughter hit him when he looked down at the Bowie Dean had curled his hand around.

"What?" Dean asked.

"Nothing," Sam chuckled. He didn't really know what was funny except that… "I spent a week possessed by a demon. I shot and beat up my own brother. I killed a hunter. I tried to hurt Bobby. And… after all that… this ikiryoh gets stronger after being in Sal. Not me."

He looked at Dean, seeing the incredulity splashed across his brother's face, worry resting in his green eyes. He laughed again.

"See, the trick is to keep breathing," Abe commented, startling Sam into sobriety. "You keep breathing, you gain clarity. And with clarity comes the realization that none of what you just said was done by _you_. You had a devil inside blocking your light, keeping you from seeing the way."

Sam looked down at his joined hands.

"Sal," Abe continued. "Was dark inside."

"How do you _know_?" Sam asked softly, not raising his eyes, genuinely hoping for an answer he could believe in.

"When faced with the reality of what his actions toward Claire had resulted in—how many lives he had ruined with one selfish, sinful act—he did not show remorse, regret, or sorrow." Abe's voice was silk. The smooth cadence rocked into Sam and pulled his eyes up, hope glistening in the air between himself and the Ojibwa. "Light had given up trying to break in. You have much light inside of you, Sam Winchester. Never forget that."

"In the light, you will find the road…" Dean muttered, his lips tipped up in a small smile.

With that, Bobby grabbed up a flask of holy water, the remaining salt, and herded Maggie from the kitchen toward the front door. Abe smiled softly at the brothers, then stood to join them. Sam and Dean sat silently, both staring at their hands.

"Y'know," Sam said quietly. "Abe asked me yesterday if the situation was reversed… y'know, with Meg… if I would have killed you."

Dean said nothing.

"I didn't answer him," Sam confessed. "I didn't know how. All the what ifs and consequences of both sides of the decision just…I mean, what if I chose wrong? What if I got more people killed? What if…"

Dean simply blinked, rubbing his thumb slowly along the hilt of the Bowie.

"How did you know?"

"I believe in you, Sam," Dean replied softly. "Always have."

"I couldn't quit thinking about what Dad would have done."

"Did you figure that one out?" Dean asked, looking at him askance.

"No."

"I dream about him," Dean confessed.

"You do?"

Dean nodded. "I dream that he's watching us. That wherever he is… he knows what's going on. He knows how what he said to me—what he didn't say to you—he knows how it is… what it is doing to us."

"And?"

Dean huffed. "And nothing," he pushed away from the table. "He knows, but…"

Sam watched as Dean stood on shaky legs, then opened his hands in a shrug. "You said it yourself. We're all that's left. We believe in each other, we'll make it through this."

"This hunt?"

Dean turned to the doorway of the kitchen. "This life."

Sam nodded to the empty room, then got up to follow his brother. The font door stood open; Bobby, Maggie, and Abe waited for them in the cab of the truck. The rain had tapered to minor drips from the tree limbs and roof gutters. Dean was trying to work his foot into the boots left for him.

Sam knelt in front of him and wordlessly worked his brother's foot into the boot, tying the laces backwards, as Dean had taught him to do.

"Thanks," Dean rasped, grudgingly.

"The answer is no."

"Huh," Dean bounced his head as Sam finished tying the other boot. "Usually the answer is _you're welcome_."

"I couldn't have killed you."

Sam looked up at Dean, noting the wry grin that said _no shit, Sherlock_. "I know, Sammy."

They made their way to the truck, Sam keeping hold of the back of Dean's collar as the vehicle bumped back down the road, noting the tense set of his brother's jaw, and the protective hand wrapped around his damaged middle.

"Sam," Dean asked as they stepped from the truck. "She killed the dog, didn't she?"

Sam looked over at his brother, surprised by the bleakness in his tone. "I don't know."

"I can't explain it, but…"

"You don't feel him around," Sam guessed.

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry, man."

Dean lifted a shoulder, trying to look nonchalant. "Maybe we're not all supposed to have a talisman."

_Who protects the protector?_ Sam wondered as they lined up in front of the truck, an eerie echo of the night before, only facing the house rather than the bar, and with Bobby rather than Yeats.

The crackle of breaking branches caught their attention, and Sam felt Dean tense as they looked toward the woods. Like a wraith appearing from the mist, Lobo stepped forward, his gentle eyes on Dean, his smudged muzzle up in the air, blood smeared and dried along his side and down one leg.

"Atta boy," Dean said, a smile plain in his voice, relief at seeing the animal alive evident in his stance. "You're a part of this."

Dean tipped his head, beckoning the wolf closer. Lobo stopped in front of him, sitting and looking up, silently. Hesitantly, Dean reached down, running his fingers down the flat of Lobo's head, rubbing behind his ears.

"She didn't kill you," he whispered. "Too tough for her, aren't we?"

"Guess the gang's all here," Sam commented, watching his brother's ease with the wild thing. Dean never ceased to amaze him.

"We go in," Bobby said, looking forward. "We turn loose on that son of a bitch. And when Claire shows up, Abe reads the spell."

"And then what?" Maggie asked.

"We…pray," Bobby said.

Sam swallowed, his first rocking step bouncing him lightly against his brother's flannel-covered shoulder. He watched Bobby take a breath, then shove the door open, stepping across the salt barrier into the darkness of the unlit house.

The screech hit his ears seconds before the stench assaulted his nostrils. The five of them poured into the room, Lobo trailing behind, blocking the light from the door, coughing and gagging in the tight air. It was more than death, more than the visceral carnage left behind by Sal's demise. The air was full of wickedness.

"You see it?" Dean barked, his arm up, nose pressed into the crook of his elbow.

"I can't see shit!" Sam returned.

It was as if the room had faded; Sam had the distinct impression that he could walk through the furniture, that clouds of disease wafted around him, that he was going to suffocate on the smell of evil.

Abe's voice filtered through his consciousness, speaking a language he didn't recognize, words flowing from the Ojibwa's mouth like water, wearing down the darkness as water beats on rock. Lobo began to growl, a wild, dangerous sound.

_He's praying_… Sam realized. It didn't matter that he didn't know the words, he understood the passion behind them. He searched for Abe in the dingy room, resisting the urge to lift his hand and push away the impression of fog. He found Abe with his eyes, standing near Maggie, one hand on her lower back, the shotgun out and resting in point position.

_Ditto,_ Sam thought, lending his will, his strength to Abe, hoping against hope that whatever higher power listened to this hunter before hadn't abandoned him now.

The screech that greeted them sounded again, inside of him, all around him, and without warning, Sam was bowed by the intense pain of a vision, except… there was only black.

"Aw, _fuck_," he breathed, dropping his gun and grabbing his head as his knees crashed against the floor.

"Sam?" Dean's voice was too far away, light years away.

The blackness consumed him, rolling over him, around him, climbing into him and pressing outward. Groaning, Sam dug his fingers into his hair, pressing the heels of his hands against his temples. _Stop…stop it…_

And Dean's hands were on him, holding him, pulling him back. He hadn't realized he'd stumbled further into the room. He felt Dean, knew it was his brother. He'd know Dean in the dark.

_So dark…_

A voice. A voice in his head. His brother's voice. He grabbed for it, latched on like a drowning man to a life line.

"…not real, okay? Remember? It will go away…"

But it didn't go away. It slammed into him. Again, and again, until he heard someone screaming, crying out for it to stop to just _for God's sake STOP._

"…that fuckin' _gun_!"

He heard Dean yelling over his screams. _His _screams. Oh, God _he_ was screaming. A roar flared through the suffocating black in his head. It was the sound of _enough_. Of the end of a rope, the sound of someone breaking. Of is brother breaking.

The roar was followed by a blast that even in his pain-fogged haze Sam recognized as the twin barrels of a sawed-off shotgun. The horrendous, amplified sound of bees trapped in glass stopped for one blessed moment, and the darkness lifted.

Gasping, Sam fell forward on the floor, gradually becoming aware that someone held him. Someone not Dean. He was sweating and shaking, but the pain in his head was gone. The darkness was gone.

"D-dean?"

The room had shifted. The bed Dean had laid on last night was flipped to its side and Maggie was pressed back against the wall behind it, Bobby standing next to and over her like a guardian angel. Lobo stood between Sam and Bobby, his head low, his hackles high, his teeth bared. The growl hadn't ceased.

Dean stood in the center of the room, feet planted solidly apart, shotgun held in both hands at his waist, his Bowie knife embedded in the floor near his feet, still swaying with the force of impact.

Abe's arms tightened around Sam, offering him balance and protection in the only way the man knew how.

"Wh-where—" Sam croaked.

"In the corner," Abe replied in a hushed whisper.

Sam darted his eyes around quickly, searching, and found the ikiryoh in the upper corner of the room, dark eyes glinting in the wan light, the taunting smile gone from its face.

_Mine…_ It declared, the sound both marshy and brittle.

"Not anymore," Dean returned and Sam was bolstered by the strength he heard in his brother's voice. Without raising the shotgun, Dean fired another round into the creature and stood fast as the scream of a wounded child filled the room.

Sam shuddered. The sound of crinkled paper shot around them as the ikiryoh slid across the ceiling, its dark eyes searching. Unable to help himself, Sam turned his face away. He couldn't take another turn with the black. He wouldn't survive it again.

"Gah!" Maggie's gasping cry of surprised pain brought Sam's head around.

"Maggie!" Bobby bellowed, blasting at the ceiling as the creature darted, its eyes still pinned on Maggie's pale face.

"Bobby! Shells!" Dean demanded and Sam saw two red rounds with brass ends sail through the air and into his brother's outstretched hand. _He's still standing… how is he still standing…_

"Oh, god, oh, god, no, no, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't try hard enough, I should have tried—" Maggie babbled.

Bobby dropped his gun, kneeling in front of Maggie and grabbing her shoulders. He shook her, roughly, her head bouncing to and fro on her neck as she sputtered apologies to empty memories.

"Maggie! Mags!" Bobby pleaded, his voice going from rough to gentle in a breath. "Margaret Anne. Look at me. Maggie… that's it. That a girl. Easy, honey, it's okay. Just look at me, okay? It's not real. It can't hurt you. I won't let it."

Sam heard the shells slide into the chamber of the shotgun and jerked his eyes to Dean, watching his brother's lips press out, his eyes tight and focused as he fired again into the back of the pale-skinned creature, the child's scream losing its horrifying effect.

Sam tried to get up, needed to help, but his legs had disappeared. He was shaking from the inside out and the only thing keeping him from sprawling on the floor were Abe's sturdy arms.

"Again, Dean!" Abe bellowed, his deep rumble reverberating against Sam's back. "Shoot it again." He began to chant, his rolling cry hitching and flowing across the gunsmoke-filled air. Almost in response, Lobo howled. It was mournful, commanding, chilling, but it drew the attention of the ikiryoh long enough for Dean to reload.

This time the creature seemed to literally fade as it crawled away from Maggie and Bobby, retreating to the ceiling corner where only its eyes were visible.

"Stop! Stop it!"

Sam whipped his head around at the sound of the woman's voice.

"Claire," Dean stated, and Sam looked back at him. He had turned his back on the ikiryoh in favor of facing the woman standing in the doorway, the pearly light of a day washed by an early morning rain falling around her shoulders, tossing her scarred face into shadow.

"Why does it… it hurts!"

"Well, it should fuckin' hurt!" Dean returned and Sam saw him waver for the first time since the blinding dark vision had swamped him. "Your little buddy up there has killed a few people for you, y'know."

"I didn't know—" Claire stepped forward into the room, her almond-shaped eyes running quickly over the crumpled form of Maggie wrapped in Bobby's protective arms, then sliding over to Sam collapsed against Abe, cleverly dismissing the formidable figure of the wolf, then back up to Dean, the last man standing.

"Bullshit," Dean challenged. "You knew. You knew the moment you set out to find those men that hurt you. You can't taste vengeance like this thing can give you," Dean pointed with the end of his shotgun blindly into the corner, "and start jonesing for it again and again."

"I used the belladonna," Claire protested. "I wanted them to _pay_—"

"They paid alright," Dean said, stepping forward with grace that belied the weakness his body was combating. He grabbed Claire by the upper arm and pulled her forward so that she was forced to stare at the gory mess that had once been Sal Jeffers. "They tore themselves inside out. That what you wanted?"

Claire whipped her head around to face Dean, her eyes snapping dangerously in the dusky room. "Yes," she practically hissed at him. "_Yes_ I wanted that. I wanted that and more! I wanted them to _hurt_ and to know why."

"Even Yeats?" Maggie bleated. "Even your own father?"

Claire didn't turn away from Dean, seemingly challenging him with her stare. She pressed her body closer to his, tilting her head so that she held his eyes. "Especially him. What he did, he did to himself. I gave him a choice to feel my pain, to hold the ikiryoh inside him forever… and he chose escape. He ran away again. Just like he'd done all his life."

Maggie sobbed brokenly, as if finally realizing that Yeats was truly gone. There was no coming back for the burly bouncer who had been her companion when all other lights had left.

"Fine," Dean growled low, not moving away from her body, not releasing his grip. "You won. Send it away."

"No."

"Yes," Dean grit his teeth, twisting his hand on her arm. "Unless you want me to hurt it some more."

Claire hesitated. Sam watched Dean stare at her, watched the puzzle pieces in his brother's head slip into place. Waited for the connection that he had just made himself.

"It's Emerson, isn't it?" Dean said softly. "Emerson Frye… the hunter from the _Roadhouse_."

Claire started. "How did you..."

"_He_ conjured the spirit," Dean said. "Not you."

Claire swallowed.

"Son of a bitch," Bobby breathed.

"It wasn't with intent," Claire insisted and the sound of paper crackling and tearing began to fill the room as the ikiryoh moved slowly from its hiding place. "He wanted to stop me… to show me how to stop."

"He hunted you, then… what, fell for you?"

Claire smirked, rotating her hips so that they pressed against Dean's groin. "I can be very persuasive."

"And you killed him," Sam whispered. "With the belladonna."

Claire didn't look away from Dean. "It was fitting. And when I realized he'd pulled the ikiryoh from my psyche…"

She shrugged, reaching up a long, slim finger to trace Dean's jaw. The revulsion she felt for herself while she stroked Dean's face seemed to seep from the cracked edges of her will and slide around the room. Still propped against Abe, Sam swallowed hard, willing the nausea to climb back down his throat.

"You used it," Dean accused, pulling his face away as her finger traced his lips.

"Girl's gotta do… what a girl's," she leaned close to his mouth, whispering, "gotta do."

When Claire's lips touched Dean's, the ikiryoh growled. It wasn't wild. It was wicked.

Dean pushed her away, staggering back as his strength evacuated, the back of his hand rising up to smear across his lips, abject disgust plain on his face. Cocking the shotgun with one hand, he fired his last round into the skittering creature and Claire doubled over, a cry of pain breaking free as she wrapped her arms around her mid-section.

"Abe!" Dean bellowed, tumbling against the wall. Lobo began to bark.

Sam blinked, feeling as if he'd just left his body, his head swimming. He tried to shake it off, but the sensation dug in and held fast.

"Sam," Abe's voice was in his ear. "You listen to me. It can't get you. You are protected. You believe that and you will be fine. You hold onto that light, son."

Sam couldn't even nod. He wanted to blink, his eyes watered with the need, but he was transfixed, watching as Bobby turned to face Maggie, gripping her shoulders and forcing her to look at him, his constant _you stay looking at my eyes_ command met by her scared nods of affirmation. Claire straightened and Sam watched as Dean slid bonelessly to the floor, his legs outstretched, his hands limp at his sides.

Claire took a step forward and the ikiryoh dropped from the ceiling, perching on her back like a shadow, its dead hands wrapped around her shoulders like a sweater of dark memory. She stepped between Dean's outstretched legs and Sam took a breath as he watched his brother's chest still, his eyes roll back, his body quake.

"_DEAN_!"

Abe's deep voice permeated the room. "_Lux lucis in obscurum, animus fused ut unus, contemno an cassus canvass, diligo est laxo."_

Claire's head snapped up, shocked, and she looked at the Ojibwa, her mouth creating a perfectly round O. Lobo's barking continued, incessant, necessary.

_"Exsisto iam ut vos errant, reverto ut pectus pectoris, haud magis mos vos ago, illa lacuna ego affero."_

Claire dropped to her knees between Dean's legs, her head falling back, her eyelids fluttering.

"Close your eyes!" Abe ordered, and Sam finally, finally obeyed. "Keep them closed, don't look, no matter what you hear!"

The child inside of Claire cried out in pain, in denial, in desire for a life it never got a chance to live. Sam heard the scream, then heard wings beating against the walls, felt air rush around and past him. Dean cried out, and it was all Sam could do to hold still, to _not_ search for him.

With one final blast of super-heated air, the screams stopped and silence filled the small room.

www

Slowly, as if he were afraid his eyes would tumble from his head and roll across the room, Dean lifted his heavy lids. There was not one place on his body that didn't hurt. His hair ached. He looked down and saw that Claire was sprawled across his legs, blood streaming from her nose and ears, her eyes open, dull, but alive.

He tried to reach out to her, tried to open his mouth, tried to call her name, but he had nothing left.

Movement soon became apparent around him. He could see Bobby standing across the room, Maggie pulled to her feet and held close to him, both looking as if they'd been plucked from a fire. He could see Sam rolling to his knees, Abe using the wall behind him to rise as well. In moments, they were all approaching him, and still Dean couldn't move.

"She's alive," Abe declared, surprised.

"The spell would have killed her if she'd conjured the creature," Bobby said, his voice gravely. "As it is…"

"It's trapped inside of her," Maggie said, crouching down next to the fallen girl.

"Will it…escape?" Sam asked. Dean heard dread in his brother's voice.

"It's part of her." Abe surmised. "It was pulled from her, and it's been returned to her. It has nowhere left to go."

Dean swallowed, wanting to say something, _anything_. Wanting to turn Claire's eyes away from him. Wanting to sleep. To just sleep and make this all go away. No more lost childhoods. No more fathers who didn't understand. No more darkness. No more memories. Just oblivion.

"Dean?"

Sam's voice was a soft whisper across his raw ears.

"You okay, man?"

Running his tongue across the inside of his lip, Dean was able to shake his head slowly.

"Let's get you out of here," Sam said, resting his hand on Dean's shoulder, inadvertently touching the bullet hole he'd put there and sending a shockwave of cold and pain through Dean like a shiver.

The tears came hot and unbidden. Dean felt them smack the back of his eyes and linger, burning the edges of his lashes like the acid of remorse. He didn't dare blink, knowing that they would spill, and all would see his weakness.

_Dean would rather die from belladonna poisoning than cry…_

He felt the weight of Claire lifted from his legs and looked up to see Abe cradling her in his arms in a gentle hold.

_I'm not alright, not even close, but neither are you, that much I know…_

They'd almost quit, almost stopped the job…

_I lost Jess, we lost Dad, and now I'm going to lose you, too…_

Sam's eyes when he fired the gun, Sam's face twisting when he said Dean was worthless…

_You're tail spinning, man…_

Sam's grin, John's smile.

_Don't let go… I'll fall if you let go…_

"Sam," Dean whispered.

"I got you, brother," Sam replied, tightening his hold. "I won't let go."

Dean leaned into Sam's grip, his forehead brushing the material of the cloth on Sam's shoulder. Dead bodies to explain, comatose witches to care for, a wounded wolf, a broken heart… it all faded in that moment.

"I won't let go," Sam repeated, and Dean closed his eyes, letting a heated tear fall in the safety of the shield his little brother provided.

Lobo limped forward, licking Dean's limp hand, tucking his muzzle under Dean's fingers, then lay next to the wounded hunter, waiting. Dean fisted his hand in Sam's shirt, holding on as he waited for the sounds of the others to leave. He was done. He couldn't fight anymore.

Sighing, Dean slipped free of his will and melted against his brother's chest, trusting in the strength that had always been there to catch him as he fell.

www

a/n: So, in hopes that you return to see how it all comes together, I leave you with less of a cliffhanger than usual. The final chapter should (hopefully) answer your remaining questions, offer up some explanations, and return some much-needed music to this quiet world. Thanks for reading.

Ojibwa translation:

_Maajaan azhigwa_ means "Leave now."

Latin translation (and the spell is totally made up):

_lux lucis in obscurum _light into the darkness

_animus fused ut unus _souls fused as one

_contemno an cassus canvass _hate's an empty canvass

_diligo est laxo _love is undone

_exsisto iam ut vos errant _be now as you were

_reverto ut pectus pectoris _return to the heart

_haud magis mos vos ago _no more will you live

_illa lacuna ego affero _these words I impart

Playlist:

_Lunatic Fringe_ by Tom Cochrane/ Red Rider


	8. Gaze

**Disclaimer/Spoilers**: See Chapter 1

a/n: (hangs head in shame) I should have known better.

I said there wouldn't be as long of a wait for Chapter 8 unless something random happened, and well, for those of you who didn't know, I had an emergency appendectomy a little over a week ago and it took me out of the game for a bit. For those of you who did know, thank you _so much_ for the well-wishes, PMs, and notes on my LiveJournal. They brought me around quicker than I might have otherwise recovered.

I'm **very** sorry this chapter is so late. Believe me. Now that I'm sporting a few new holes in my own stomach, I feel a _teensy_ bit bad about what I've put Dean through in this story. I was eager to return to it and bring us all some closure.

A lot happens in this "wrap up" and I hope it satisfies and does **not** disappoint. (bites nails down to first knuckle) You all have been fantastic with your support and reviews; I thank you for keeping me going. If I haven't replied personally to your review by the time this chapter posts, rest assured that I will. You are the beat of my creative heart.

Kelly, you keep me sharp. (smile)

**Sanderspleen**, this quote is for you, rock sister. I hope you all enjoy the return of some music. **Nana56**, I hope you've enjoyed the story you bid on so long ago.

Please see the end notes for information about where this story will be available in zine form.

* * *

_Music's the only thing that makes sense anymore, man. __Play __it __loud __enough__, __keeps __the __demons __at __bay…_

_-- JoJo, "Across the Universe"_

_Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;  
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,  
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere  
The ceremony of innocence is drowned.  
The best lack all conviction, while the worst  
Are full of passionate intensity._

_--WB Yeats, "The Second Coming"_

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It was something about the eyes. They looked too human and yet not human enough. They stared at him with an unsettling mixture of sadness and curiosity. He wanted to demand that the eyes close, that they stop staring, that they look away.

But they continued to gaze at nothing.

Watching them, his body grew tight. His lungs seemed to hitch, curling inside of his chest in protection. The eyes themselves were beautiful; the emptiness framed by dark purpose inside of them was devastating. He was both drawn to them and repulsed by them. They didn't waver, they didn't blink, they didn't reflect.

He couldn't help but wonder what they were waiting for.

www

Dean was aware of his hands.

It was an odd sensation, and one he'd never really spoken of to anyone, but where breathing seemed to simply happen, and blinking was an afterthought, walking was natural, and wetting dry lips was just something he did, he was constantly conscious of his hands. Where they were, what they were doing, as if they were not an extension of him, but a situation he had to control.

"You going to look at me or what?"

John's voice was startling in its suddenness, but not unexpected. Many times since his father's death, Dean had heard him when he closed his eyes, seen him as he drifted in the gray moment between waking and sleeping.

Dean felt his father's gaze, but continued to stare at his hands. There was blood on them.

Dried, stained, old, new.

"I'm waiting," John said.

"For what?" Dean heard the sullen resignation in his voice.

"For you to look at me, Son."

With a monumental effort, Dean lifted his head. The room they were in was small, and he couldn't see the corners for the shadows. John stood against one wall, Dean against the opposite wall.

And they stared at each other.

Dean matched his father's stoic expression, leaking nothing from his eyes, showing nothing in the lines on his face. His hands were heavy at his sides and he wanted to curl his fingers against his palms, catch the drops of blood that fell from his fingertips to splash with a deafening cadence against the floor.

"You got something to say?" John's voice was as he remembered. Challenging and gruff with an odd undertone of care that could only be heard if he were listening for it.

Dean lifted a shoulder. "Doesn't really matter, does it?"

"Yeah? Why's that?"

"'Cause I'm dreaming. You're not real. I'm basically talking to myself." He knew he was dreaming. He… he _had_ to be dreaming.

"You sure about that, are you?" The corner of his dad's mouth pulled up in the tiniest of grins as if he were watching Dean learn a new skill.

Dean felt a flicker of hope tinged with panic at the thought that he might be wrong. He might _not_ be dreaming. He looked down at his hands again. The blood was fresh. He turned his palms up and lifted his hands waist-high. The dark, sticky wet climbed his forearm, fingers of blood tracking the outside path of his veins until it reached his mid-section.

And blossomed in a swath of red across his belly.

"Oh, God," Dean breathed.

"Look at me, Son."

_"Stay with me, Dean."_

Sam's voice startled him and Dean jerked his head up and around. The room began to grow lighter around him. He could see a bit further into the corners.

"Sam?" He called.

"Sam's not here, Dean."

"I heard him."

John shook his head. "It's just us."

_"Dammit, open your eyes, Dean."_

"There—" Dean turned around. Shadows. Nothing. "Did you hear that?"

"Look at me, Dean."

Cautiously, acutely aware of the tingling in his fingers, the tightness in his chest, Dean turned, blinking in surprise to see his father inches from his face. For one heart-stopping moment, Dean couldn't meet John's eyes, wanting—_needing—_to see the stern, warm brown of his dad's irises, afraid of the echo of yellow he could still feel there.

John's voice softened. "Keep your eyes up, Son."

Dean swallowed, forcing himself to stare at his dad, forcing himself to see what only John could show him. He watched as his dad's face softened, his eyes seeming to appear larger in his face. For a moment, he caught a glimpse of youth, of freedom, of salvation. In that glance, a surge of strength shot through Dean, tripping on pain in its path and leaving a heat-trail of love in its wake.

_"Please, Dean, please…I'm sorry…I'm so sorry…"_

"What's he sorry for?" Dean asked, puzzled. He felt his hands begin to tremble, but couldn't look away from John's eyes. A warm, wet sensation spread across his belly and began to soak into his jeans.

"Who?"

"Sam," Dean said.

John smiled. "What do you want him to be sorry for?"

At that, Dean drew back. "What's that supposed to mean?"

John lifted an arm and Dean tore his eyes from his father's face to watch his hand move slowly through the air, parting the lingering shadows around them and rest on his shoulder. A quick, searing pain shot through him just under John's hand. Dean curled his fingers in, listening as blood seeped through his fingers to drip on the floor.

The room grew brighter.

"It means what you think it means," John said cryptically.

_"You're __**not**__ doing this to me, man. I won't let you."_

"He's mad," Dean breathed in realization.

"Sam is?"

Dean nodded. "What am I doing to him?"

John squeezed his shoulder and Dean gasped at the pain that caused.

"You're leaving him."

The words seemed to fall from John's beard-framed lips to take form in mid-air before striking against Dean's ears.

"The hell I am," Dean retorted, trying to step back, away from John and the icy truth of his statement. Without warning, pain stabbed him in the belly. Knives under the skin, slashing without wounds, piercing without exposure. He lost his breath, pressing his blood-covered hand against his middle. "What the fuck…"

"Dean."

"Holy Christ, just… gimme a minute, Dad…"

He began to pant, desperate for air, working to expand his lungs and hoping that would soothe his body enough so that it stopped trying to turn him inside out.

_"Hang on to me, man, just hang on, okay? I'm gonna help you…"_

"Sam—"

"I told you, Dean. He's not here."

"I can _hear_ him!" Dean protested, wrenching away from John's hand, crying out when the warmth of that touch left him with a burning cold brand of a bullet.

Frowning, John turned his back to Dean and crossed the room in a careful, heel-toe, heel-toe gait. Gasping, holding his belly, bent from the pain, Dean stared at this motion with confusion. It was as if John were marking the space between them. Keeping stock of distance.

"Dad," Dean asked cautiously, determination winning over waning balance. "Where are we?"

John looked at him over his shoulder, and Dean felt the room suddenly glow. He squinted his eyes against the glare. The light seared, intense in its brilliance. It felt comforting and frightening—both powerful and overpowering at once.

"You don't know?" John asked.

Dean looked around, his lashes shielding his eyes from the intense light. The corners of the room were visible to him now, and what was hidden there made him blink in surprise; chills of realization with a painful heat chaser climbed his arms.

One corner was filled with weapons: shotguns, pistols, knives, flares, salt, herbs, journals, Bibles, exorcism rites. Everything he'd ever needed or could ever need to fight his war, to keep the people he loved, and the people he'd never met, safe.

Frowning, Dean shifted his eyes to the opposite corner and saw a graffiti-covered wall with names, hundreds of names, some faded, some brighter, some circled, some crossed out. All women's names. Women he'd known, women he'd wanted to know, women he'd touched, women who had touched him. Women who had burned him, women he'd burned. One he had loved, one he'd always remember, one that got under his skin, one that he'd forgotten.

Swallowing, almost afraid to see, Dean pivoted to look behind him. To his left was a corner filled with a collage of pictures and words. Pictures of people he vaguely remembered, people he'd never met, lyrics to songs that drew him through the night, notes of thanks and pleas for help, eyes and mouths and tears and smiles and hands…so many hands. Grasping his, reaching for his, pushing at his, holding his.

Dean felt a tremble in his chest as he slowly turned to look into the last corner. In it, stood Sam.

"I thought you said he wasn't here," Dean choked out, not sure where his father stood inside the light, but aware that he was still there.

"This isn't Sam," John informed him. "This is your purpose."

"Looks a helluva lot like Sam to me," Dean grunted, bending to try to shift some of the knives away from his tender flesh. Knives he couldn't see. Knives that were killing him.

"This is _you_, Dean," John said. "All of this is you."

"We're…inside…me?" Dean gasped, turning to face his father in the glare.

"In a way," John shrugged.

"Don't 'certain point of view' me, here, Obi-Wan," Dean snarled.

_"Okay, that's it, Dean, that's it, keep breathing, okay? Just keep breathing. I'm not letting go, I swear. I promise, Dean."_

Dean shook with the fear in Sam's voice.

"What do you want him to be sorry for, Dean?" John asked him again.

"Nothing!" Dean staggered a bit, one hand searching behind him for a wall, for support. "He's got nothing to be sorry for."

"You sure about that?"

"Oh, this is fuckin' _great_," Dean sobbed, finding the wall. Leaning. "You wait until you're dead and a figment of my imagination before you decide to care what I think?"

John stepped forward, blocking out some of the light, easing the glare, comforting Dean with his closeness. "I'm not in your imagination, Dean. And what makes you think I never cared what you thought?"

"Maybe because you never asked me?"

"I'm asking you now," John said softly and the sound curled around Dean's ears, making him want to lean into it. Making him give in. Making him confess.

"I want him to be sorry that he left me," Dean whispered.

"Left you?"

"I told him, Dad," Dean panted, feeling the blood leak through his fingers. Feeling the room tilt around him. "I told him what you made me promise."

John simply watched him, his eyes growing warmer.

"I freakin' _begged_ him to give me some time… to give me time to think." He was slipping, hand slapped against the wall, leaving a smear of blood as he searched for purchase. "And the first chance he had… he left."

"Pissed you off, did it?"

Dean met his father's eyes, sweat rolling from his forehead to tremble on the edge of his lashes. "It…scared me."

"Why?"

"_Why?_ Because how the hell can I watch out for him if I don't know where he is?"

"You can't be everywhere, Dean."

"You self-righteous sonuva_bitch_," Dean growled, fury surging strength into vanishing limps. He leaned forward. "You are in _hell_ because of me, Dad."

John lifted an eyebrow.

_"Dean! Hey…hey, c'mon, come back, hey, no no no, you come back, you hear me? __**You hear me, Dean**__?"_

Dean flinched at the desperation in Sam's voice, instinctively looking into the corner where his Sam stood, silently watching him, hazel eyes innocent, face unlined, lips relaxed into an open smile, dimples peeking out. The dichotomy of what he heard and what he saw made him dizzy with a truth he couldn't wrap his mind around.

"You're in hell because of me," Dean repeated. "You gave up everything for me."

"And?"

"How can I do less for Sam?"

"You are his brother, Dean," John said softly. "Not his savior."

Anger making his eyes burn, Dean stepped forward, oblivious of blood, oblivious of pain, oblivious of the growing intensity of the light around them. He reached his stained hands out, grasping the lapels of his father's worn, familiar jacket and shoved him back against the wall with strength born of need for validation.

"I _am!_" He bellowed. "I am because you _made me_!"

John's placid face regarded him calmly.

"All my life," Dean continued to roar, "you told me to watch out for Sammy. Last thing you said to me…"

_"You feel this, Dean? I'm hanging on. I'm hanging on because of you."_

Dean shook his head, spinning with the sound of Sam's voice.

"Last thing you said to me was to watch out for Sammy… you told me I might have to kill him, Dad. _Kill_ him."

John nodded, saying nothing.

"Why?"

John smiled sadly.

_"You believed in me, Dean. You never let go, not __**once**__. You always knew…even when I hurt you, you always knew. Just like with Dad. Just like then. You knew he couldn't let…that thing…kill you… So you gotta hang on, okay?"_

"Why, Dad?" Dean whispered on a strangled sob, his fingers weakening in their grip.

"Because I knew you would find a way, Son," John whispered back.

"Find a way to what?! To do what you couldn't?" Dean railed.

John's eyes were sad.

Dean dropped his burning eyes to his bloody knuckles. "Whose blood is on my hands, Dad?"

John closed his eyes.

"It's not mine, is it?"

"No, Dean."

"Yours?"

"No."

Dean swallowed, feeling his eyes fill. "Sam's?" His voice cracked.

"Not yet."

Relief left him weak.

He released John's jacket and with it all sense of balance. Falling to his knees in front of his father, Dean bowed his head, hands resting on his thighs, palms up, blood mocking him. The light surged, blossoming bright enough to cancel out all else, dazzling his eyes.

"Dean," John's voice was a command.

Dean jerked, swaying on his knees.

"Look at me, Son."

Dean tried to raise his heavy eyes, tried to lift his head. "So tired."

"Look at me."

John's order left no room for argument. Dean tipped his head up, meeting the suddenly gentle eyes of his father.

"You have a job to do," John reminded him. "You want that blood gone? You do. Your. Job. Now, open your eyes."

"What?" Dean blinked, confused, hot, chilled, suddenly hurting everywhere. The knives were relentless. Breath left him. His body burned, froze, shook, shattered.

The room faded quickly, as if a focus on a camera were being twisted tight, dropping him down a swiftly narrowing shaft with shadows flanking him and chewing at his heels. Helplessly he flung his hands out to the side to stop his plummet and was met with the soft, warm flesh of another reaching hand. One that wrapped strong fingers around his wrist.

"Dad?" His voice hurt his ears.

"Hey! Hey, man."

"Where's…" _I was dreaming… it was a dream…_

Sam's voice was close, his breath dusting across Dean's face. "Open your eyes, Dean."

Dean worked to obey, Sam's voice blending with John's, Sam's touch feeling like his dad's, Sam's weight heavy. The calloused palm ran unconsciously along Dean's fever-hot forearm, ending at his wrist, just shy of his hand.

Rolling his eyes under his lids, Dean fought against the tide of weariness. The room was blurry and unfamiliar. He was lying down, covered up, and there were odd clicks and beeps somewhere nearby. Vaguely, he felt the pressing closeness of curtains and sheets, but he ignored them all to find Sam's face.

"That you, Sammy?" he rasped.

"Yeah," Sam sniffed, his tongue darting to the corner of his mouth to catch an errant tear. "It's me."

"Happened?" His mouth felt as if it were filled with cotton and his body was blessedly numb, floating several inches above awareness.

"You beat it, that's what happened."

"The ikea?"

Sam's laugh was soft and slightly wet. "Yeah, the ikea. And the fever."

"Thas good."

"Hey, don't close your eyes yet, okay?"

"'kay."

"I'm sorry, Dean."

"Stop sayin' that, Sammy."

"I just… I want you to know…"

"S'okay, Sammy. S'okay."

"You sure?" Sam's voice trembled, and Dean saw the years fall away as his brother stared at him, saw the boy peering out of the eyes in the man before him. Saw the innocence that Sam lost along the way, the gift that his brother truly was.

"Yer m'purpose…" Dean slurred.

"That so?"

"Mmhmm."

"Dean?"

"Hmm?"

"Hang on to me, okay?"

"I won't let go, Sammy," Dean allowed his eyes to slide closed.

"I mean it."

"I know."

And darkness was a welcome friend.

www

Abe sat in the stiff, high-backed chair next to Dean's bed, having allowed Sam to slump into the recliner on the other side of the room once Dean fell into a peaceful, fever-free sleep. The boy's soft snoring was testimony of the arduous journey his body and spirit had taken in the last few days. His fight to keep his brother present, keep his brother in the game, had exhausted Sam past all capacity for vigilance and had Abe not pushed him into the chair, Sam would have been a heap on the floor.

Closing his eyes on a sigh, Abe couldn't stop his mind from replaying the last several hours like a spliced movie reel. Claire's eyes, too empty, too full, gazing vacantly at the huddled forms of brothers too spent to move, too moved to speak.

Things had happened almost too quickly. He'd felt as if he were watching himself move, hovering on the outskirts of the action. Bobby had left Maggie sitting on the floor, seemingly recognizing something in the sudden stiffness of Sam's shoulders as they shielded his warrior brother that Abe hadn't seen.

Approaching cautiously, Bobby had stepped between Lobo and Dean, visibly wary of the bared teeth and impressive rolling growl emanating from the animal. As Abe watched, Bobby tipped Dean's head back from Sam's shoulder, checked his pupils, looked at the seeping belly wound, then cursed. Putting a hand on Sam's shoulder, Bobby barked an order to Maggie to get the truck ready, they were going to the hospital.

Stunned, Abe had asked if they should call an ambulance.

"You ready to explain all this?" Bobby had jerked his head to the eviscerated body in the far corner and Abe was instantly reminded that though the danger was past, this trial was far from over.

Sam had moved as if in a daze, not taking his eyes from his brother's pale, limp form as Bobby shifted Dean to a recumbent position, trying to assess the damage the hunter had done to himself fighting the battle against the ikiryoh. Uncertain how to help, Abe carried the catatonic Claire to the bed of the truck, laying her inside on the blankets Maggie had prepared. He'd turned to see Sam and Bobby carrying Dean between them, unresponsive, and eerily still.

Laying him next to Claire had felt both wrong and right. They were the bookends to this story—the beginning and the end, drawing the rest of them together through their struggle. Dean's head had lolled to the side, his forehead resting against Claire's shoulder in the rocking motion of the truck. Claire had simply stared, lost inside herself.

The emergency staff at the hospital hadn't asked questions past the explanation of _camping, river, wound, infection_, and Bobby had hovered close, watching the battle Dean continued to wage with his brother at his side. Claire had been taken away, few words exchanged beyond _found her wandering_. Maggie had waited for them in the hallway, Abe the liaison between the suffering inside the ER, and the suffering in the waiting room.

Abe leaned forward, dropping his warm face into his wide hands, covering his eyes. It had been close. Too close. Blood loss had led to shock, infection had led to fever, and a weakened body had been pushed to limits beyond many a man's measure.

But Sam had been relentless in his faith. Abe looked up at the sleeping boy through his fingers. He'd not budged from Dean's side, coaxing, demanding, ordering, pleading. When Dean's pulse plummeted, Sam's voice brought it back up. When Dean thrashed in a fevered panic, Sam's hands held him steady.

Abe had seen it before. He'd seen these brothers pull each other from the brink before. And if he kept up this life, he knew he would see it again. The warrior that was Dean would fight to the bloody end to protect the gift that was Sam. But Sam's will was nothing to be countered. His ferocious faith in his brother rivaled many a zealot and Abe found himself pitying the forces that sought to tear these two apart.

"Dad?" Dean mumbled for the third time that hour.

Abe rubbed his fingers over his lips, resting his eyes on the pale, bruised face. Asleep, Dean looked much younger than his years or experiences. The scars Abe had seen running rivers of memory over Dean's young body told stories that no one his age should be able to recount. His eyes, when open, could freeze or warm, seduce or repel, and they aged him in ways Abe couldn't fathom.

But as he watched Dean now, Abe saw a boy. A wounded, lonely boy, in need of his father, in need of reassurance, in need of strength.

Dean shifted slightly on the bed and Abe straightened, watching closer. Heavy, dark-shadowed eyes blinked upwards and Abe caught his breath, watching as the blurry cobwebs of a dream slipped silently to the wayside, and focus turned sharp on surroundings.

"Abe?"

"Hey," Abe smiled.

"Where the hell are we?" Dean asked, his voice sandpaper rough from disuse and war.

"Hospital."

"Shit," Dean closed his eyes again.

"Sam and Bobby made sure you were covered," Abe assured him.

"Where's Sam?"

"Right over there," Abe nodded to the other side of the bed.

Dean turned his head slowly, his short, light-brown hair rustling against the coarse threads of the hospital pillow case. "Sleepyhead."

"He's had a long night," Abe offered.

"Yeah," Dean looked back at him, blinking slowly. "How's Lobo?"

Abe shook his head. "I don't know. We had to leave him behind."

"Dammit," Dean cursed. "He was hurt, Abe."

"I know."

Dean coughed slightly, flinching at the pull on his midsection, a hand sliding to protect it. "Find him, okay?"

"I will."

"What about Bobby?"

"Outside with Maggie," Abe replied. "We've been taking shifts, but," he looked again at Sam, "you brother wouldn't leave."

Dean winced, lifting the sheets to peer down at his wound. Abe watched as he reached down to hitch up the hospital gown, then shifted his eyes away as Dean bared his mid-section.

"Damn," Dean whispered.

Abe knew he was seeing a tube draining the infection away from the puncture wound, semi-saturated gauze covering the hole.

"It wasn't good," Abe informed him. "Better now, though."

"I don't…remember," Dean confessed, dropping his head back, letting the sheet fall to cover his legs once more. "It's all mixed up with some… random dream of my Dad."

"You fought valiantly," Abe complimented him, "and you beat the evil, but at a serious cost to yourself."

Dean shrugged silently.

"That isn't something you should ignore," Abe admonished. "You are the only thing that stands between your brother and real darkness."

Dean frowned, sliding his eyes to the side, searing Abe with disapproval. "Sam's not gonna go darkside."

"Not if you're there for him."

"Well, I didn't go anywhere," Dean grumbled tiredly.

"Not this time," Abe informed him.

Dean closed his eyes. "I can't be everywhere," he said softly.

"No," Abe agreed, "but you're here, now. You're here for Sam. You're here for _you_."

"Me?" Dean opened one eye, raising his eyebrow.

Abe nodded, seeing, finally, where the crux of forgiveness lay. Not in Dean freeing Sam from his guilt for hurting him. Not in Dean freeing Sam from anything. Not even in Sam allowing the understanding that he hadn't been in control of his actions.

Forgiveness lay in Dean. _For_ Dean.

"You didn't let him down, you know," Abe said.

Dean looked away, not at Sam, not at Abe, but somewhere into the middle distance where nothing could touch him and the thick mask of indifference could shift quickly and easily into place protecting the raw vulnerability of his heart.

"You _didn't_," Abe pressed. "You are keeping your promise."

"To who?" Dean whispered.

"To Sam," Abe asserted. "You are protecting him just as you said you would."

"What if I made a different promise," Dean asked. "A promise to someone else."

"Your dad?"

Dean was silent.

"I remember what you said, Dean. You said he told you that you _might_ have to kill Sam." Abe sighed, leaning his elbows forward on his knees. "He left you no context, no parameters. He simply said please. Please protect my son. Please do what I could not. Please make right what has gone so terribly wrong."

Abe watched Dean's throat work, his lips tighten, his eyes glisten, but he remained silent.

"Until the day comes when you are unable to stand," Abe predicted, the image of Dean facing off the ikiryoh as his battered body trembled with defiance burned into the backs of his eyes, "against the darkness that threatens your purpose, you will continue to fight."

"You sure about that?"

"As I am about anything," Abe nodded.

"We almost quit this fight," Dean informed him, his eyes now resting on Sam's slumped form. "We almost walked away."

Surprised, Abe sat back. "What changed your minds?"

"Bobby, you," Dean lifted a shoulder, his head sliding sideways on the pillow to rest in a dent. "Hell… we don't know anything else, man."

Sam mumbled incoherently in his sleep, his brows bouncing comically as he carried on a conversation with his subconscious. His fingers twitched as if he were moving his hands rapidly in his dreams.

Dean smiled. "He used to sleepwalk," he said. "I'd find him in the closet or the bathroom… sometimes at the top of the stairs. That's why I always sleep near the door. He got over it, but… I didn't."

"You're a good brother, Dean," Abe said.

"Yeah, maybe."

Abe watched Dean's eyes drift, then pop open, still watching Sam. "Rest."

Somewhere below his resistance, need won out and Dean slipped into oblivion, his face turned toward his brother, his hand resting on his belly, the beep of the monitors offering a steady backdrop of reassurance.

And Abe watched over him.

www

_"It is the evening of the day, I sit and watch the children play, smiling faces I can see, but not for me. I sit and watch, as tears go by."_

The voice was rich, deep…familiar. He wanted to roll into it, wanted to burrow inside of it, wanted to hold it, tighter, keep it closer.

_"My riches can't buy everything. I want to hear the children sing. All I hear is the sound of rain falling on the ground. I sit and watch as tears go by."_

It was his dad's voice. His dad sang to him when he was sick. Was he sick? No… no _Dean_ was sick. Dean had fought so hard, had saved him, saved them…

"Sam."

_So tired_. He wanted to hear the voice again.

"Sam, wake up."

Sam blinked. Youthful confusion from a dreamscape of safety and memory began to fade as reality brushed against his sleep-warm face. He rubbed a clumsy hand against his eyes, bringing the room into focus.

Bobby stood in front of him, the white curtains pulled around Dean's bed framing the world-weary hunter like the wings of an angel. Sam felt Bobby tap the toe of his boot once more, just to be sure he was really awake.

"Bobby?"

"Need your help, boy."

"Dean?" Sam sat up straighter, looking around.

"He's okay," Bobby assured him. "He's asleep."

Sam's bleary eyes found his brother, laying still, IV tubes connected to his right arm, bandages peeking out from under his hospital gown at his shoulder.

"He's okay?" Sam asked, needing reassurance that he hadn't slept through a pivotal moment, hadn't missed something he needed to hold on to.

"He's gonna be," Bobby said gruffly. "With some rest. Your brother is one tough kid."

"I know," Sam leaned forward, elbows on the edge of Dean's bed, his face in his hands. Images like slides from a View Master flashed behind his eyes.

Tough didn't begin to describe the stature of the brother he'd been looking up to his whole life. Strong got close. Loyal was in the mix, as was reckless, rebellious, stubborn…

"Sam," Bobby rested a hand on Sam's shoulder. "You need to come with me."

"Leave him?" Sam looked up, unable to mask the plea in his eyes as expertly as his brother so often could.

"He'll be okay for a bit," Bobby promised. "We still got some trouble back at the bar—need your help to hide the Impala."

Sam wanted to grip the sheets in tight fists and plant his feet stubbornly. "I don't know, Bobby…"

"Go, Sam." A voice like river gravel startled Sam. He looked over at Dean, surprised to see a slit of green peeking out from between barely parted lashes.

"You're awake?"

"Sorta," Dean rolled his head, pain folding a line between his brows. "Feel like hammered shit."

"Look like it, too," Sam grinned.

"Not possible," Dean sighed, closing his eyes. "Go with Bobby."

"You sure, Dean?" Trying not to sound five. Trying not to need to be close.

"What am I going to do, Sam?" Dean asked, eyes still closed.

"Uh, try to leave, maybe," Sam pointed out.

Dean's grin was quick. "Not much of a danger in that," he assured his brother. "Can barely keep m'eyes open."

"Abe's waiting in the truck," Bobby told them. "We gotta get some things in place to keep Maggie out of trouble with all of this."

"Figured," Dean said. "Bobby."

"Yeah," Bobby looked at Dean.

"Where's Claire?"

"She's here," Bobby said. "Psyche ward someplace."

"She talking?"

"Not sure," Bobby answered. "They haven't let us see her all night."

"'Kay."

"I'll take care of the car, Dean," Sam stood, resting his fingertips on Dean's leg.

"You better," Dean opened his eyes slightly to fold his brother in. "Or I'll have your ass."

"Uh-huh," Sam smirked, following Bobby out of the room, pausing at the doorway to look back. Dean was once more asleep, but his mouth relaxed in a small smile.

Sam shortened his stride to keep in step with Bobby as they made their way out of the hospital. He hummed unconsciously to a beat in his head, his thoughts on Dean, on what waited for them at the safe house, on getting his brother out of there, of going _home_…

"Didn't know you were a Stones fan," Bobby commented as he pushed against the metal cross bar on the hospital exit door.

Sam pulled up short, pausing mid-hum, then followed Bobby outside. "Yeah," he grinned slightly. "Me neither."

The morning was wet. Sunlight clung in wet droplets from the trees around the hospital, from the rear-view mirror of the truck, running along the curbs and edges of the road. Sam felt as if the world had been crying since they arrived in Plummer, Minnesota. Rain had constantly saturated the hunt, leaving impressions of the experience like footprints in the mud of his weary mind.

He climbed into the truck next to Abe, Maggie sitting quietly between Abe and Bobby, and stared out through the raindrop-splattered window. An odd pull began in his chest, as if the turning wheels drawing him away from Dean were stretching a string to the point of snapping.

He hadn't realized how close the hospital was to the _Hideout_. The ride in the back of the truck last night had felt like it had taken eons, each tremor and cry of Dean's pain-wracked body slamming into him with the frustrated helplessness of one doomed to simply watch. He'd remembered hanging on to Dean's hot, limp hand as though releasing it would mean giving up, and he was damned if he was going to ever give up on his brother.

"Uh, Bobby?" Sam sat up straighter, looking more intently through the window.

"I see it," Bobby growled.

Lights flashed, red and blue and brilliant white, silently in front of Maggie's house.

"How'd they find out?" Abe wondered aloud. "Unless…"

"Lloyd," Sam guessed, venom in his voice at the feel of the name in his mouth. "Sal said he ran into him in town. He must've convinced the cops to come check out the alien that killed his friend Jones."

"Well, fuck me sideways," Maggie breathed. "No way we're going to be able to explain all this."

"It's not over 'till the fat lady sings," Bobby stated, rotating the wheel of the truck roughly down the road just north of Maggie's house. "Right, Sam?"

"I don't hear a fat lady." Sam gripped the door frame to keep from falling against Abe.

"You got an idea?" Abe asked.

"Maggie, your house is a wreck, but there's no body there," Bobby said, turning left at a break in an old fence line and bouncing the foursome in the truck around like billiard balls on a break. "I say Sam and I go in to the safe house, clear out the weapons, hide my truck and the Impala, you and Abe go into the bar and wait there with… with Yeats."

"Just… wait for the cops?" Maggie asked, voice shaking from the force of Abe's truck jarring across the rutted land.

"They're going to make their way down to the bar," Bobby said.

"What do we say?" Abe asked.

"Tell 'em that you don't know what happened. You're lucky to be alive," Bobby replied. "They're going to have too many bodies on their hands as it is, and there is no evidence that you did any of it."

"Bobby—" Sam broke in.

"We move fast enough," Bobby said, slamming on the breaks behind the bar, out of sight from the two police cruisers up on the hill, "you and Dean will never have been here."

The foursome exploded from the truck, bodies bent on action, faces dark with purpose. Sam followed Bobby into the safe house, grimacing at the stench from Sal's body, empathizing immediately with Maggie and Abe and what they would encounter in the bar.

Accustomed to clearing out and leaving no trail, Sam made quick work of gathering their weapons and supplies, tugging Dean's knife from the floorboard where it had been lodged since the day before, erasing all evidence of their visit, except—

"Bobby, there's a lot of blood here," he whispered. Dean's, Sal's, Lobo's. Too much to hide.

"Bring the sheets and bandages with us," Bobby said. "We'll burn them later. The rest… hell, unless this little town has a forensic team, it could all have come from him." Bobby jerked his head toward Sal's body.

"What if they hear the car?" Sam asked, anxiously as he dropped the bags into the trunk.

Bobby ran a hand over his mouth, eyes darting as he searched his mind quickly for a solution. As if produced as the product of silent prayer, the shrill whistle of a train sounded in the distance. Sam met Bobby's blue eyes and answered his grin with a flash of dimples. As one, they moved to their vehicles, counting quietly until the train crossed the tracks just outside of the safe house and when the whistle blew again, Sam fired up the Impala.

Dean's music filled the interior of the car, and the tight pang in Sam's chest twisted sharply, causing him to catch his breath.

_"Never opened myself this way. Life is ours, we live it our way. All these words I don't just say, and nothing else matters…"_

Lips ticking up in an automatic smile, Sam reached for the volume before he shifted gears, bringing Dean closer to him through the lyrics of the song.

_"Trust I seek and I find in you. Every day for us something new. Open mind for a different view, and nothing else matters…"_

Pressing his palm flat on the wheel, Sam spun the big black car in an arch and followed Bobby's hidden truck back through the muddy field and up the back of the large hill, splashing wet, dirty water up over the finish, bottoming out twice and gritting his teeth until he was able to feel the back wheels once more on the road. Bobby led him to a cluster of trees nearly a mile from the bar and there they hid both vehicles from the inquisitive eyes of the local police.

"Dean's gonna kill me," Sam said, closing the door and looking at the mess covering Dean's beloved car.

"Eh," Bobby waved a hand at him. "Just think about what he'd do if they towed her to the impound."

Sam shot a look at him. "Don't even kid about that, Bobby."

"C'mon," Bobby started down the road. "We still got work to do."

www

Abe knew that leaving Dean behind at the hospital was one of the hardest things Sam had had to do that morning. He'd hated it, but he did it. Because it was what _had to be done_, and if Abe learned anything from these brothers, it was that they did what had to be done. He held that close to him as he followed Maggie into the _Hideout_.

The cloistered air reeked of death, of darkness, of despair. His friend had died here. He felt Maggie's determination tremble through the air as she stalwartly crossed the dimly lit room and stood before Yeats' body.

Abe was afraid to look at him. He'd seen head wounds before. He'd seen death. But the last days had taken him to a place inside that he was afraid he wouldn't come back from if he saw much more.

"He never told me he loved me, you know," Maggie said suddenly, startling Abe as her smoky voice sliced through the deafening silence.

"Yeats?" Abe asked, confused, still standing in the doorway.

"He saved me. He slept with me. And he let _me_ tell _him_."

Abe nodded quietly. _Bobby_.

"But Yeats…" Maggie's voice tangled against tears at the base of her throat. "Yeats told me. Every day. In little odd ways. The way he'd always walk the perimeter before I closed. Or told me about his past. The way he… the way he stayed," she said on a sob.

Abe stepped up behind her, resting a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"He didn't deserve this," she whispered, her voice growing hard. She turned to look at Abe over her shoulder. "But neither did Claire."

Abe simply nodded.

"How is it possible to want vengeance and feel pity at the same time?" Maggie asked.

Abe looked down, helpless in his own confliction.

"Hold it right there!"

The authoritative bark startled them and Abe released Maggie, turning to face one of the two policemen with his hands up.

"What the hell is going on here?"

Abe opened his mouth, stepping forward.

"It came in the night," Maggie whispered, her voice fragile, her words broken. Abe froze.

"What did?" The policeman kept his gun on Abe, motioning with his head to his partner.

"I don't know," Maggie said. "But it killed—"

"Aw, _fuck_. Aw, shit on a stick, Bryant," exclaimed the cop who had moved further into the bar and found Jones' body. "Something… something tore through this guy."

Abe glanced over, watching as the young cop pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, his throat working.

"Can you tell what it was?"

"Ain't no alien monster."

Abe met Maggie's eyes for a fraction of a second before he looked back at the cop.

"We… we think it was an animal," he offered. "There's… another body… in the house out back."

"What about this guy?" The cop looked down at Yeats.

"He's my—" Maggie swallowed. "My friend. I think he… found them."

The sickly cop crouched over Yeats' pale, still form. "Got a bullet wound here, Bryant. Half his fuckin' face is gone."

"You shoot him?" Bryant demanded of Abe.

"No!" Abe answered automatically, hands raised again in reaction to the gun pointed his way.

"He did it himself," Maggie whispered again. "He did it himself."

The room grew quiet.

"We need to call this in," Bryant told them. "Get these bodies to the coroner. Someone's gonna want to question you two."

"Leave him," Maggie looked down at Yeats.

"Ma'am—"

"Please," Maggie said. "You can see it was suicide. Leave him to me."

"Isn't up to us, ma'am."

"No?"

Abe lowered his heads as Maggie stepped forward. Her eyes were flinty in the wan light.

"Who is it up to, then?"

"Well, there are protocols and paperwork—"

"That man was my friend. He had no one else. I'll take care of him." Her words were a barricade that none of the men in the room attempted to cross.

"We'll be back," Bryant stated.

As the cops backed out of the bar, heading toward the safe house, Maggie crouched beside Yeats.

"Maggie—" Abe started.

"His name," she said softly, brushing a sturdy, blunt-fingered hand over the top of Yeats' head. "Was Francis Duffy McCullough. He was 58 years old. He was a soldier. He was a fighter." She looked up at Abe, tears swimming in her bright green eyes. "He lived a hard life and made hard choices. He rarely spoke. He loved W.B. Yeats."

She turned back to Yeats' body, tears falling on the edge of the dead man's blue-tinged lips.

"And he was my friend," she finished.

Abe, knowing a eulogy when he heard one, stepped quietly away and left Maggie to her grief.

www

This time when Dean woke, it was with sudden, complete clarity and awareness. There was no gradual shift from oblivion, no peaceful roll out of the arms of rest. It was simply nothing and then everything. Commotion. Light, sound, texture.

Smell.

That acrid, antiseptic smell of bleach, ammonia, and disease that clung to hospitals and turned his stomach inside out. He hated even investigating in hospitals, let alone residing in one too long.

Almost immediately, he was aware of the presence of someone else in the room. Someone not Sam. Someone new. Pressing his hands flat on either side of his hips, Dean pushed himself up in the bed, wincing at the burn across the sensitive area of his stomach.

A nurse was moving around the end of his bed. A _male_ nurse. Dean grimaced.

"You ready to get this out?" The middle-aged, pleasant-eyed man asked him.

"What's that?" Dean asked, surprised that his voice sounded so normal. His tongue felt twice its normal size. His lips were dry and cracking.

"Your catheter."

Dean felt his face heat up. "God, yes," he replied. Until the man had said something, he hadn't even been aware of the offending tube's existence.

"Gonna pinch a bit," the nurse commented, moving the sheets down and Dean's hospital gown up in that disinterested _I see all this and more every day pal_ motion that intimidated the hell out of him.

"Ya think?" Dean fired back. He sucked in his breath, pinning his eyes to the ceiling as he felt the latex against his lower abdomen, then the quick burn and pull as the catheter was removed.

The sheets were lowered and Dean let out the air he'd been holding.

"How's your pain?"

"Okay."

The nurse raised a brow. "One to ten?"

"Uh… four," Dean lied.

"Can't help you if you don't tell me the truth," the nurse told him.

Dean simply leveled his eyes on the man, allowing him to check his blood pressure and temperature.

"122 over 82. Good. Temp's still a bit elevated, but that's to be expected with the infection you've been fighting."

"When can I get out of here?" Dean asked, his eyes darting to the door.

"Not up to me, kid," the nurse said, rolling the blood pressure cuff up and stuffing it into his rolling cart. "You still have an open wound, you know."

Dean tipped the sheets up. "They gonna pull that tube out?"

"Soon enough," the nurse replied. "Don't want that infection to come back, do you?"

"Not especially."

The nurse started to leave and Dean caught his attention. "Hey, man, uh, can I get some… pants?"

"Going somewhere?" The nurse replied.

"Just thought I'd… walk around a bit," Dean replied.

The nurse stared at him a moment. "Well, it's good to get you moving. Keep the packing over that tube. The gauze will absorb the—"

"Dude, I don't need details."

"Just take it easy," the nurse admonished with a shake of his head.

"Scouts honor," Dean lifted his hands to show his pledge.

Two hours, several cups of water, a visit to the restroom, and one pair of pants later, Sam still hadn't returned and Dean was restless. Still tethered to the IV pump that sent fluids and antibiotics into his ravaged system, Dean pulled the cord from the wall and made his way to the hallway, finding the directory just outside of the elevator.

"Psychiatrics, sixth floor," he intoned. "Right, so all the crazies who jump will actually kill themselves…"

He slid into the elevator, avoiding eye contact, and rode to the sixth floor. By the time he exited the elevator, though, he was leaning heavily on his IV stand, surprised by how weary his body became with just that simple act. He made his way slowly to the nurse's station.

"Hi," he greeted the forty-something woman sitting behind a computer screen, looking as if a sharp stick in the eye would be preferable to what she was currently doing. "Can you tell me what room Claire, uh…"

The woman raised a painted-on eyebrow, waiting.

"You know, she, uh," Dean ticked the warmth of his smile up to his eyes. "She never told me her last name."

"Drove her crazy, did you?" The woman asked, lips pursed in disapproval.

"Not exactly," Dean said. "Listen, she was brought in here the same time as me, and I just want to make sure she's okay."

"Honey, _no one_ in this ward is _okay_."

Dean sighed, looking down, then lifted dangerous eyes. "She's Asian, dark eyes, small build, came in last night."

"I can't just give out room numbers."

Frustrated, Dean turned his back to the desk. _Maybe this was a bad idea…_

"…catatonic. Just stares, barely blinks. It's as if there's no one inside anymore."

Dean's ears perked up, catching wind of the voice and direction. He looked to his right and saw a heavy-set man in a white lab coat standing outside of a room, talking to another man who was frowning as he cleaned his glasses.

"And you say she was just dropped off? No family?" Dr. Glasses commented, sliding the spectacles back onto the bridge of his hawk-like nose.

"So it appears," Dr. Heavy took his arm and led him further down the hall, away from Dean.

Pushing off the counter, Dean headed toward the room the two doctors had just exited, relieved to find the door partly open. Quietly, he pushed through, wheeling his IV pole in behind him, and crossed to the bed.

Claire lay still, staring at the ceiling, unblinking. Her clothes had been removed and replaced by a white hospital gown, her wrists and ankles were strapped to the bed. Dean blinked at the way the harsh overhead light illuminated her scar, turning it almost purple against her translucent skin.

There weren't any chairs in the room; apparently patients in the psyche ward didn't receive many visitors. Dean leaned a hip against the bed, his belly burning from the exercise. He watched Claire's face, momentarily fascinated by the absolute vacancy of expression.

"Don't know why I'm here, really," he said, just to erase the quiet of the room, fill his ears with something besides the pounding of his own heart. "You kinda confuse the hell out of me."

For a moment, Dean thought of Gordon Walker. Of Lenore. Of black becoming gray and white fading to black. Of all he'd _known_ to be true turning inside out with one promise. One loss. The absence of one person in his life.

"It sucks out loud what happened to you," Dean said, pushing out his bottom lip. "Can't say as I blame you for wanting to get back at those guys. Something like that happened to me…don't know what I'd do."

He looked down, running his thumb along the silver bar along the side of her bed. It was cool under the pad of his thumb.

"But…I couldn't let you kill my brother," he said softly. "Even if you never meant for that…thing to get in him. It did." Dean paused, turning his hand over and staring at the fine white scars on the back of it. "And I couldn't let that happen."

"You think I am the devil." Her voice was shocking. It was the sound of a bee trapped against glass, as if she were dragging air roughly against her vocal cords even as she spoke.

He'd heard that sound before.

"No," he answered. She continued to stare at the ceiling.

"You think I am evil," she said, and he shivered, sliding a hand across his belly. "You hate what I am. Hate that I hurt you."

"You didn't hurt me, Claire," Dean said. "Sal did."

"You resent my freedom. You wish you could be like me."

"Uh…" Dean's brows met across his nose and he tipped his head to the side. "Not…really."

"You want to punish those who hurt you. And I was able to."

Dean went suddenly cold as realization struck him. Claire wasn't speaking to him. _Claire_ wasn't speaking at all. He moved cautiously to the side of the bed, leaning forward to look into Claire's eyes.

And gasped.

An image stared out at him. An image of a scarred, frightened girl, crouched inside of herself. Claire's face shifted slightly so that the image was hidden from him and her dark eyes met his. Her lips curled slightly in an empty smile.

The shattered voice spoke again. "You think I am the devil."

"What if I do?" Dean whispered.

The smile widened. "You'd be right."

www

"Longest freakin' mile in Minnesota," Sam complained.

"You gonna shut your pie hole or you gonna make me do it for you?" Bobby groused.

"Had to go and park all the way back there, didn't you?"

"You always this much of a pain in the ass, or are you just filling in for Dean?"

"Listen, old man—"

"Who you calling _old,_ Too Tall?"

They stopped in the center of the road, facing each other, panting a bit from exertion, worn thin on high-stress and no sleep. Sam heard the whine a fraction of a second before Bobby's eyes widened.

"Holy… it's that wolf," Bobby whispered.

Sam whipped around. Lobo was moving toward them, out of the cluster of trees, limping slowly, lips curling around the whimper of sound that should have been a growl, but was lost in weakness.

"Oh, God," Sam exclaimed and moved toward the wounded animal, unthinking.

"Sam, wait!" Bobby cautioned.

Lobo snapped when Sam came too close, too fast. His teeth were bared, lips flinching upwards. The hairs that weren't matted with blood stood high on his back and his ears went flat against his head, stopped Sam short.

"Easy," Sam soothed. "Easy, boy. I know I'm not Dean, but… I'm not gonna hurt you." Sam eased forward steady hand out, careful not to meet the wolf-dog's gaze. "Just… just take it easy, Lobo."

Sam succeeded in getting close enough to rest the back of his hand against Lobo's muzzle, and visibly relaxed when the animal picked its ears up. Gently running one hand down the wolf's neck as Lobo licked tentatively at his other, Sam lay the hairs back down with a wide swath, finding the wound with one stroke. Lobo yelped, but Sam continued his litany of comfort.

"Bobby," Sam said softly, "this looks like a bullet wound."

"When was he hit?" Bobby asked from the edge of the road.

"Maggie said when Yeats and Claire were fighting," Sam said, looking up. "Do you think… I mean, is it possible that Yeats was shooting at Lobo to keep him from Claire and was… I don't know, hit by a ricochet or something?"

Bobby ran a hand over his beard, tugging at the coarse hairs. "Suppose it's possible… but I thought… Maggie said Yeats was already down when Lobo went for Claire."

"She could have been wrong… it's a lot to take in, y'know."

Sam crouched, wrapping his arms on either side of the wounded wolf.

"What the hell are you doing?" Bobby asked.

"Taking him with us," Sam grunted lifting the animal into his arms, staggering a little under the weight.

"You're gonna carry him back?" Bobby asked, disbelief plain in his voice.

"Yeah," Sam stepped back onto the road, thankful when Lobo didn't struggle.

"You didn't even want to walk it yourself—"

"Bobby," Sam hushed him. "This is Dean's talisman. I'm not leaving him behind."

Bobby looked at Sam a moment, seeing perhaps a junkyard and the broken body of the Impala between them.

"Okay," Bobby sighed. "Let me know if he gets heavy."

"_If?_"

www

He wasn't going to make it back. He may as well sit down in the elevator and wait for the doors to open and some kindly doctor or nurse to scoop him up on a gurney and wheel him into oblivion. His body trembled, his belly burned, his eyes ached.

And he was completely freaked out beyond rational thought.

When the doors opened, and Sam stood on the other side, a frantic look in his eyes, Dean nearly fell forward with relief.

"Where the hell were you?" They said in unison.

"Me?" Echoed again.

Sam stopped, his lips a thin line, his eyes unamused.

"Nice bitchface, Sammy," Dean wheezed.

"C'mon, you freakin' stubborn ass," Sam took Dean's arm, carefully sliding it over his shoulder and helping him wheel the IV pole back to his room.

A bed never looked so good. Using Sam as balance, Dean gingerly sat on the edge of the bed, rolling onto his untethered arm and panting as he lay back on the bed.

"Happy, Walker McWalkerson?" Sam lifted an eyebrow. "Scared the shit out of me when I got here and you were gone. Plus, you missed your dose of pain meds."

"Call 'em back," Dean panted.

"Ought to let you suffer," Sam grumbled, picking up the call button. "Where the hell were you, anyway?"

Dean licked his dry lips, fumbling for the plastic cup and drinking deeply. "Man, this sucks out loud."

"Dean."

"I just needed to… get out of here for a bit," Dean said. "You weren't back yet, so…"

"Yeah, I'm sorry about that," Sam sighed.

"What took you so long?" Dean asked, closing his eyes as a wave of pain rocked him.

"Uh… I had to move the Impala."

Dean lifted a brow.

"She's okay, but… she needs a bath."

"Sam…"

"But I found Lobo!" Sam interrupted, immediately redeeming himself.

Dean started to sit up, hissing in pain as his wound physically stopped him. "Sonofabitch," he gasped. "No more belly wounds."

"I'll put that on our contract," Sam said, grinning as he sat on the chair Abe had vacated earlier that morning.

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Lobo, dude. Is he okay?"

"I think he was shot," Sam said, rushing to finish when Dean paled. "But he's going to be okay. I got him back to Abe. That man knows his stuff. He had him cleaned and stitched before I headed back here with Bobby."

"Bobby's here?"

"Yeah," Sam tossed a look over his shoulder. "He, uh… I think he's avoiding Maggie. Said he could handle the insurance stuff for us."

"What about… y'know, back at the bar," Dean asked, eyeing the door. Pressing his hand carefully against his belly, avoiding the tube positioned to drain out the infection, Dean growled, "They making a fresh batch of the stuff or what?"

"Take it easy," Sam soothed. "They'll be here. Stuff's still kind of a mess back at the bar, but we're covered."

"Not really us I'm worried about," Dean said softly.

"Yeah, I know," Sam answered as a nurse appeared with Dean's pain medication, injecting it into the IV.

When they were alone once more, Sam sighed, settling back into the chair. "You're probably safer here for awhile," he said, as if anticipating Dean's question.

"What about you?"

"I'll stay with you."

"What, sleep in the chair?" Dean scoffed.

"Why not? Slept in worse places," Sam reminded him.

"True."

"Hey, Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"I went up to see Claire," Dean said.

Sam sat forward. "And?"

"It's, uh… it's in her," Dean ran a hand over his lips. "It's like she's gone."

"Not our fault, Dean," Sam said quickly, his voice hard. "We had a job to do."

"Did we?" Dean looked at him. "I mean… we kinda stumbled into this one… and if it weren't for that sonuvabitch Sal and his buddies… we might not have been here when Claire—"

"Doesn't matter," Sam shook his head once. "We were here, it happened. That's life, man."

"Screwed up life," Dean sighed, leaning his head back, letting his eyes fall closed for a moment. Sam sounded so…certain. As if he'd thought about it and decided on an answer to a question Dean hadn't thought to ask. _Sam is not going to go darkside…_ "Can't help but think if…"

"What?" Sam prompted when Dean paused.

"Well, if Yeats had just… What if he'd done _one thing_ differently…"

"We can't live our lives around _what_ _if_, though, Dean," Sam said. "I mean, what if I'd killed Dad in the cabin?"

Dean jerked, looking at Sam, stunned. Sam's face was stone, his eyes brimming.

"You don't think I wonder about that? Every day?" The tears balanced on the edge of Sam's lashes glinted in the harsh light of the hospital room. "What if I'd killed him? Killed that demon right then. I mean… Dad's dead anyway, right? And we're still fighting that thing. And you… you had to promise Dad… promise _me_…"

Dean tried to speak. But his breath had left him.

"You had to make a promise that's killing you slowly each day," Sam said, one tear slipping past his lashes and bouncing down a stubbled cheek.

"No, Sammy," Dean shook his head, his strangled voice as certain as Sam's had been earlier. "It's not."

"Dean—"

"It's _not_ because my promise was to _save_ you." Dean's voice grew stronger as he began to believe his own words. "I told him I'd watch out for you. Take care of you. Just like always."

Sam huffed out a small laugh, looking down and shaking his head. Dean watched him run the thumb of one hand in a circle on the inside of his opposite hand. _Sam's hands_… Dean looked down at his own, remembering vividly the way blood had poured from invisible wounds, slicking his fingers with the possibility of death.

"Hey, Sam, promise me something," Dean asked, still gazing at his hands.

"Sure, anything."

"Don't take off on me, okay?"

"Dean, I didn't know—"

"I'm not talking about Texas," Dean looked over at him, working to shield his eyes, feeling himself fail. "I'm talking about when you went to Peoria."

"Oh," Sam looked down again, licking his lips. "I was… I needed to know. This whole… this idea that I'm something… _different_ it's just too—"

"You're not _different_," Dean asserted. "You're my pain in the ass little brother."

Sam lifted his eyes. "Who has visions."

Dean shrugged.

"And can move stuff with his mind."

"Oh, jeeze, _one time_," Dean rolled his eyes. "Not like you're a friggin' Halliwell."

Sam smirked.

"What?" Dean demanded innocently. "I told you daytime TV sucks."

"Thanks, Dean," Sam said softly.

Dean smiled at him, still for a moment, allowing the quiet connection between them to weave, hold, touch even as they remained apart.

"Go make yourself useful and find me something decent to eat in this joint," Dean demanded, pulling his eyes away from Sam's. "I'm starving."

"You're gonna be asleep the minute I leave," Sam observed, apparently not having missed the slow, weighted blinks of his brother's green eyes.

"So, I'll have something to wake up to," Dean yawned. "Don't be long."

"I won't," Sam promised.

www

Three days, four hours, and 27 minutes after their harrowing ride to the hospital in the back of Abe's truck, Sam was walking alongside a pouting Dean as an orderly wheeled him outside of the hospital to Bobby's waiting truck.

"Where's the Impala?" Dean immediately asked, as Sam had known he would.

"Back at Maggie's," Sam replied, smiling his thanks to the orderly and reaching for Dean's hand.

"I got it," Dean lightly smacked Sam's hand away. "Coulda walked down here on my own, you know."

"Whatever you say, Dean," Sam placated, hovering his hands close to his brother's back as Dean reached up to haul himself inside the cab with a grunt of effort.

"Hey, Bobby," Dean greeted, sighing as he settled himself between Bobby and Sam. "You our driver for the day?"

"Don't get used to it," Bobby grumbled.

"Gotta say," Dean glanced at Sam with a practiced smirk, then back to Bobby. "I'm surprised you're still hanging around."

"Why's that?" Bobby asked, easing the truck out onto the road.

"Well… 'cause of Maggie," Dean said.

Bobby frowned. "Yeah, well," he sighed. "Might be time to clear the air on a few things."

Dean folded his lips down in appreciation. "Very mature."

"Don't you start," Bobby snapped. "I been getting it in spades from your brother."

"Yeah?" Dean glanced at Sam and smiled. Sam grinned back, silent. "Well, good. Gotta keep you sharp, old man."

At that, Sam barked out a laugh.

"Man," Dean sighed, laying his head back on the seat. "I'm ready to go home."

"You aren't going anywhere for awhile," Sam said.

"What? Why?" Dean brought his head up sharply, wincing as the move tugged at his still-healing belly.

"Why?" Sam narrowed his eyes at his stubborn brother. "Because you still have packing in your wound, because you're weak from fever, and because…" Sam sighed. "Because the Impala's not ready for the road."

"Sam…"

"I'll take care of it," Sam assured him.

"What did you do?"

"Hey, ease up," Bobby snapped. "He kept her from the impound, didn't he?"

"Jesus, Bobby, don't even kid about that stuff," Dean breathed.

"You two will stay up at Maggie's place until Dean can travel," Bobby said.

"What about the cops?" Dean asked.

"They won't be back," Sam assured him. "Not for awhile anyway. They're on a hunt for a mad mountain lion or something."

"Not gonna get Lobo are they?" Dean asked, brows pulled together in worry.

"Christ, you and that dog," Sam muttered, his dimples flashing.

"What?" Dean returned, innocently. "I'm just asking."

"Where are you going to stay, Bobby?" Sam asked. Dean turned to look at the driver, interest piqued.

"I'll, uh… I'll stay at the safe house."

"Not with Maggie?"

"Boys," Bobby sighed. "There's something you need to learn about women and hunting, if you haven't already." He glanced over at them. "They don't mix. You can't love one and do the other, or do one and love the other. Just ain't that easy."

Dean looked down, turning his hands over in his lap, quiet. Sam watched his brother a moment, then stared out of the window, thoughts on a fading memory of a blonde beauty with the devil's smile and the feather-light touch of an angel.

"They always worry you won't come back, and they always need more than you think you can give."

"So, we're all we got, that what you're saying?" Sam asked sullenly. "No chance for something in the future?"

Bobby shook his head, turning into Maggie's driveway. "Nah, not saying that at all. Just saying that there are sacrifices, and both of you have to be willing to make 'em. But she'll end up making the most. And no one can live like that for long."

"You going to make it up to her?" Dean asked.

"Not sure I can," Bobby confessed, turning off the truck, then lifted his eyes to see Maggie standing on the porch, waiting for them. "'Specially with the way things are now." He looked over at the brothers, his eyes full of obligation and hiding a well of love.

"Might be worth a shot," Dean shrugged. "Never know."

Bobby shrugged, opening the door and sliding out. Sam reached back to help Dean, keeping silent when Dean let him. They moved toward the porch, looking up at Maggie with caution in their eyes.

"Welcome back, Dean," she said softly. "Good to see some color in your face."

"Thanks."

"I set you up in the downstairs guest room. Sam you can go upstairs if you want."

"That's okay, Maggie," Sam said, his hand on Dean's elbow.

"Figured as much," Maggie tilted her head to Bobby, not looking directly at him. "Need your help with some… with Yeats."

"We, uh, doing it tonight?" Bobby asked.

Maggie nodded, then turned to head back into the house.

Dean looked at Sam. "Doing what?"

"Funeral," Sam said.

"Ah."

Sam helped Dean to their room, seeing that Maggie had truly anticipated his decision to stay close to Dean and made up two twin beds on the opposite sides of the room, their duffels on the floor in between. Dean eased into bed, using his elbows to lay back and closed his eyes on a sigh.

Sam sat on the opposite bed, hands between his knees, watching his brother.

"That you?"

"Huh?" Sam brought his eyes into focus at Dean's voice.

"Are you humming?"

Sam paused, thinking, realizing that a song from what felt like a forgotten dream was tickling the back of his throat. "You said Dad always did for me."

Dean turned his head on the pillow, drawing his left leg up to tent his knee. "Yeah, he did. When you were sick. It calmed you down."

Sam simply smiled, and continued to hum.

"Stones, huh?" Dean commented.

"Don't ask."

Night came too swiftly. Dean stood next to him in the dark, but Sam felt very alone. Yeats' body was wrapped, resting on a pyre. Maggie stood at his feet with a torch, Bobby at his head with the eyes of a lost man. Abe stood on the other side of Dean, quiet and solemn.

"Life is a crazy mess sometimes," Maggie spoke up, startling Sam. "We spend so many days, months… hell _years_ being angry at someone for not fitting into our idea of what they needed to be and… we waste all that time."

Sam caught his breath, memories of another funeral pyre, another night, welling inside, and wafting over him.

"Yeats would have hated seeing us all standing around here. Woulda hated seeing tears. He… he was a tough bastard," Maggie continued. "But, I guess we all have our breaking points."

Sam swallowed, then felt the weight of his brother's shoulder resting solidly against his arm. He looked over, concerned, then realized that Dean wasn't weak. He was offering him strength. Grateful, needing the connection, Sam leaned subtly back, accepting the help.

Maggie shoved the torch into the pyre, igniting the lighter fluid and wood.

"I'm not ready to break," she said. "And I'm done wasting time."

As Sam watched, she moved around the pyre, the orange flames illuminating her short blonde hair like a halo, her eyes glinting like the sparks of embers that drifted skyward and died in the cool air of night. Stepping up to Bobby, Maggie reached out, pulled his left hand from his jacket pocket, gripped it tightly, then turned and started for the house, pulling Bobby along behind her, shock clear on his face.

The remaining trio stood silently, dumbstruck.

"Many people think," Abe said softly after a moment, "that if you take your own life, you are denied the peace promised in Heaven. However, if you sacrifice your life, you are given a place of honor."

"So," Dean said, his voice low, gruff. "Which do you think Yeats will get?"

Abe turned to look at the brothers. "I think his life was a sacrifice," he said. "I think death was his peace."

He looked down for a moment, then moved off into the darkness.

"He ever confuse the hell out of you?" Dean asked after a moment.

Sam huffed out a quick, surprised laugh. "Yeah."

"I know what you're thinking, Sam," Dean said.

"I thought I was the psychic one."

"We're always going to miss him," Dean leaned away from Sam, reaching up to brace a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Right?"

Sam looked down, running his tongue over his lip. "Yeah."

They stayed until the fire had burned to coals and the heated glow turned their faces from human to feral in the dancing shadows. They stayed to watch over Yeats. They stayed, because it was what had to be done.

www

The sun warmed his upturned face as the wind teased his too-long hair. He needed a cut, but was happy to have been able to shave the last few days. There was only so much stubble his face could handle before he wanted to scratch it off.

Leaning against the white-washed post of Maggie's front porch, Dean absently stroked the soft fur behind Lobo's ears, the big dog's head resting comfortably on Dean's thigh. Lobo sighed sleepily in contentment. Dean carefully ran his hand along the animal's side, marveling at the way his torn, bloody body was healing.

"Kind of a matched pair, huh?" Dean said softly.

Just that morning he'd removed the packing from the still-open wound in his belly, cursing loudly and imaginatively as the saturated gauze stung and tugged at the healing meat of his abdomen. The gauze he placed over the shrinking hole would continue to soak up drainage for several days, but he could already see and feel a marked improvement.

He tired a lot easier than he would like, but Maggie was enjoying caring for him. And Sam wouldn't let him out of his sight for more than five minutes. Having Bobby up at the house helped that. Dean wondered how long that would last, but contented himself with seeing a smile on his old friend's face for the first time since they'd broke in on him looking for John.

"Wounds are healing well," a voice commented from his right.

Dean looked over at Abe. "Him or me?"

"Both," Abe smiled.

"You going somewhere?" Dean frowned. "You're all… dressed up."

Gone was the red flannel and T-shirt. Gone was the sensible braid. Gone was the silver earring. Abe wore a black suede jacket, fringes decorated in small beads. His long black hair was loose, flowing down his back with three large white feathers fixed in various positions framing his face and at the back of his head.

He still wore his jeans and boots, but he simply _felt_ different to Dean.

"I've made a decision," Abe said.

Dean felt his stomach drop slightly. "Yeah?"

"I'm going to return to my people."

"Okay…" Dean commented, not quite understanding.

Abe looked at the ground, then slowly lifted his eyes to regard the hazy, sun-drenched horizon. "When I left, it was for me. I couldn't let go of the idea that there were other…creatures…like the wendigos out there. That I might be able to do something about it. That I could…" he glanced at Dean. "Could be a hero."

"You _are_ a hero, man," Dean assured him.

Abe shook his head. "No," he said. "I am simply a man. I wanted to be more. But I saw the reality of your life this time like I hadn't experienced it before." Abe reached over and twisted the silver bangle around his wrist. "I lost someone very dear to me," he said. "She was my light. My last and best reason for living."

Dean watched him, silent, rubbing Lobo's ears.

"After that, I simply…existed. Until I met you two. I wanted a piece of the life you led, the devotion I saw, the connection I witnessed. The closeness between you two was…"

A low rumble caught their attention, and Dean turned to look toward the empty area and watched as Sam pulled the filthy Impala next to the house.

_"Son of a bitch!"_ Dean yelped in outrage, surging painfully to his feet as Sam climbed out of the mud-caked vehicle with a creak of metal. "What _the hell_ did you do to my car?!"

Lobo likewise scrambled to his feet.

"Wait!" Sam held up his hands as if not sure who was more threatening, the wolf or Dean. "Before you go all _Goodfellas_ on me, I'm just about to clean it up."

"You sure as hell _better_."

"Untwist your boxers already," Sam frowned, reaching between his shoulder blades and pulling his T-shirt off, sun already reflecting off of the beads of sweat on his shoulders. "I got the bucket of suds right here."

"_And_ wax?" Dean demanded, slowly resettling himself on the porch step. Lobo instantly resettled himself next to Dean, resting a head on Dean's leg and nuzzling Dean's hand to encourage him to resume his petting.

"Yes, your Highness," Sam muttered, opening the passenger door and tossing his T-shirt inside.

"So, yeah, like I was saying about your closeness…" Abe grinned.

Dean chuckled slightly. "Man, you can't live with your brother in your pocket and _not_ snap at each other once in awhile. I'm honestly surprised we don't do it more often."

Dean tipped his head against the post, watching as Sam turned the keys to the first position on the car, ejected the Metallica tape from the player and began to spin the knob. The door behind Dean banged and he looked over to see Bobby step out, tucking in his shirt.

"Dude, seriously!" Dean frowned good-naturedly. "It's like ten in the morning!"

Bobby adjusted his hat. "What's your point?"

Dean bit the inside of his cheek. "I mean…_already_?"

Bobby worked his lips into a smirk of satisfaction. "Still."

Dean pressed his hand against this stomach as he laughed, his muscles still tender.

"What's that brother of yours up to?" Bobby asked, tilting his head as ZZ Top wafted across the lot.

_"When you wake up in the morning and the light is hurt your head, the first thing you do when you get up out of bed, is hit that streets a-runnin' and try to beat the masses, and go get yourself some cheap sunglasses. Oh yeah!"_

"Giving the baby a bath," Dean said.

"Does a bath have to be so damn _loud_?"

"Hey," Dean laughed. "I were you, I'd stop complaining and get in on the action."

"Oh, good point," Bobby headed down the stairs as Sam cranked the volume, closed the door and slid a towel under the car to begin pulling the tufts of earth free from the undercarriage.

"He's killing me," Dean shook his head, watching.

Abe smiled, sitting down next to Dean, resting a hand on Lobo's side. "I have to leave," Abe said.

"I figured," Dean answered, feeling an odd sensation of loneliness at the thought.

"I have to make atonement for some things that I turned my back on."

Dean nodded, silently wishing he could do the same, knowing that if he said the words aloud, Abe would never understand.

"I thought I wanted what you had, Dean Winchester," Abe looked down at his fingers as they sifted through Lobo's thick fur. "I never truly realized what you've sacrificed to get it."

The crazy burst of electricity dancing a beat through the air as Angus worked the strings of a guitar pulled Dean's eyes toward the car and Sam standing, clad only in jeans, spraying off the dust and mud with his thumb pressed over the end of the hose.

_"I was caught In the middle of a railroad track. I looked 'round, And I knew there was no turning back. My mind raced and I thought what could I do? And I knew there was no help, no help from you. Sound of the drums. Beatin' in my heart. The thunder of guns! Tore me apart. You've been - thunderstruck!"_

"Y'know," Dean said, his eyes on his brother as Sam listened to Dean's music, washed Dean's car, "when I was growing up, I wondered what other kids did when they went home to the same place every night. I wondered what it felt like to… to just _not know_ that this stuff was out there."

He looked down at Lobo for a moment as Sam played air guitar on the garden hose.

"When my dad made me promise to, uh, to watch out for Sammy," he looked back up at his brother who was now negotiating with Bobby for help washing the Impala in exchange for turning the sudsy water onto Bobby's truck. "I never thought anything of it. It's just what I did. But…"

Dean smiled, years of war and struggle falling away with the worn, barroom voice sliding through the air and making Sam pause with a soap-filled sponge in his hand to turn and meet Dean's eyes.

_"Out past the cornfields where the woods got heavy. Out in the back seat of my '60 Chevy. Workin' on mysteries without any clues. Workin' on our night moves. Tryin' to make some front page drive-in news. Workin' on our night moves_…"

"But?" Abe prompted.

"I realized that if Dad hadn't raised us like he did—a life on the run, always fighting something, never knowing when or where our next meal was coming from—then his asking what he did… it would have phased me. It would have been a sacrifice, y'know?"

He saw Abe nod sagely out of the corners of his eyes, his eyes on Sam's sad smile of a memory he'd been told about but could never experience for himself.

"We are who we were meant to be," Abe said. "I am not a hunter. Not in the way you are. It's my purpose to save people in other ways, I suppose."

"You do alright," Dean grinned. "I mean… it's twice now I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you."

"I simply crossed your path," Abe shrugged.

Familiar harmony broke across Dean's ears and he lifted his head.

_"Carry on my wayward son. There'll be peace when you are done. Lay your weary head to rest. Don't you cry no more."_

"I better check to make sure he gets her rinsed good," Dean said, lifting Lobo's head from his lap and pushed himself stiffly to his feet. Taking two hesitant steps from the porch, Dean paused, turning.

"Hey, Abe?"

Abe looked up at him, his hand resting contentedly on the dog's side.

"I want you to, uh…" Dean swallowed. "I want you to take him."

Abe frowned. "Lobo?"

Dean nodded. "I can't take him… not in the way we live. And he's not well enough to be out there on his own."

"He's a wild thing, Dean," Abe protested. "And besides… he was meant for you."

Dean looked down at his hands. Clean, scarred, devoid of blood. "He did what he was supposed to for me. Maybe he needs someone to watch out for him, now."

Abe looked at the wolf and Lobo raised his head, solemnly regarding the Ojibwa in return.

"I'll protect him as if he were my own," Abe promised.

"Well, he is yours," Dean said. "He doesn't belong to me."

Lobo looked over at Dean.

Abe smiled. "I wouldn't be so sure."

Dean looked down, a secret smile playing on his lips, then made his way over to Sam.

_"Masquerading as a man with a reason. My charade is the event of the season. And if I claim to be a wise man. It surely means that I don't know."_

"What are you doing over here?" Sam asked, soap perched in a point at the end of his nose.

"Helping," Dean said. "You missed a spot."

"Jerk," Sam grinned, flicking the hose up quickly to splash Dean's face with icy water.

Dean blinked the droplets from his lashes, his lips tipping up in a genuine grin. "Bitch."

Sam handed him a towel and pointed him toward the trunk. "Don't push it," he admonished. "I'm not carrying your ass inside."

"Fine, fine. You're so bossy," Dean grumbled with a smile, running the towel slowly over the clean, black metal.

The sun tilted at a gentle angle in the mid-morning sky, heat filtered by a breeze and illuminated all below with a soft light that held hope and purpose, breaking through the shadowed corners and drifting easily over the gray at the edges of their sight.

It was a moment that could not last, but Dean knew he'd hold it close when darkness returned as it inevitably would. He would think back on the light bathing his brother in a cloak of lost innocence, his home glittering and clean, and his hands, rhythmically circling all in a blueprint of protection.

_"Carry on my wayward son. There'll be peace when you are done. Lay your weary head to rest. Don't you cry no more."_

* * *

a/n: It is finished.

I think I was trying to prove something to myself with this story. What, I couldn't tell you for sure, but I almost _needed_ to write it. Your encouragement and support has carried me through the randomness that continued to occur in my life as the story played out. I am honored and humbled by your response to this story and hope that those of you who enjoyed it will return for others.

Because I have ideas pinging around in my head somethin' fierce.

This story will be available in zine form, through agentswithstyle. For questions, please contact Mysti at zines(at)agentswithstyle(dot)com.

Thank you again.

Slainte.

Playlist:

_As Tears Go By _by The Rolling Stones

_Nothing Else Matters _by Metallica (Quite possibly my favorite lyrics. Ever.)

_Cheap Sunglasses_ by ZZ Top

_Thunderstruck _by AC/DC

_Night Moves_ by Bob Segar

_Carry on Wayward Son_ by Kansas (Dude, I _had_ to…it's so their theme)


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